


At Hero's Bay

by senokai



Category: Marvel
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Adult Content, Adventure, Alien Character(s), Alien/Human Relationships, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Angst, Angst and Drama, Drama & Romance, Eventual Romance, Family Drama, Family Fluff, Fanfiction, Fantasy, Fluff, Heavy Angst, Major Character Undeath, Major Original Character(s), Minor Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), Mythical Beings & Creatures, Other, Past Violence, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Romance, Reader-Insert, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Slow Burn, Swearing, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:13:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 159,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24613588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/senokai/pseuds/senokai
Summary: [ ✮ 𝘔𝘈𝘙𝘝𝘌𝘓 / 𝘈𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘹 𝘍! 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 ✮ ]≡The worlds will come together.Against each other, united as one.The world of heroes was certainly not small. Whether they were gods, enhanced, genetically engineered, or incredibly intelligent, Earth always had a defender. It was the Avengers Initiative, who finds themselves facing a terrible threat. Faces old and new prepare to fight.  Yet, just when the Avengers are ready to fight the danger, a new ally from the galaxy flies in. With a war filled with interest, snarky humor, and bitter-sweet turns, who and what was this new, wild, outer-space woman and why has she come to join the Avengers?
Relationships: Avengers Team & Original Characters, Avengers Team/Reader, MCU/Reader, Marvel/Reader, OCs/Reader
Comments: 14
Kudos: 41





	1. Introduction 「1」

##  **𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐔𝐧𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝**

A room, dark and glowing white and blue, filled with the specimens known as  _ humans _ .

They were fickle, fragile little things, but dominant in their own home. Within their short lifespan, they made up a small part of nature known as  _ life _ —ever growing and ever so constant—living there on their own little planet;  _ Earth _ . 

Though their minds were as big as their part of existence, they put themselves to good use. From birth to adulthood, they made themselves useful— _ convenient _ . But that didn't last for long. Now they, these people in this metal labyrinth facility, were beings within a bigger world, even smaller than beyond the bounds of their planet’s clouds. 

But they understood that long ago already, a great many. Alien beings, led by a god of another world had come once. Called the  _ Chitauri _ , it was an army that invaded their ships and Leviathans in America’s New York, proved more than enough, with all the death and destruction, that there was more out there—in the great, black, starry nothing. 

They should have died, and many did, but the rest of the world was fortunate. 

The humans had them; each other, yet those who are greater;  _ the Avengers.  _

Most were human, some were not, but they were all heroes. 

From then on, the world has changed—the universe has changed. 

For better  _ and _ for worse. 

『✭』

The fields of faces were distressed, flashing blue and white against their sheen of sweat. They had been working for hours now, tapping their trembling fingers onto keys on their dampened keyboards, glowering down wearily at their multiple monitors flying through countless windows, encryption codes of all sorts had now been burnt into the back of their eyelids, each metric memorized by seconds. Their lives depended on it; this task. So, they could not complain in the slightest. 

Besides, how could they, when they were so caught up in  _ S.H.I.E.L.D’ _ s intel? 

They weren’t making progress, nothing that looked promising enough to satisfy the man in charge, the head of the division. A rumor lingered for a good hour that he wanted to take care of the matter directly—as quick as possible, to ensure that nothing like  _ 2012 _ ever happens again. 

Nobody wanted that, they were sure, but still disappointed he did not go on his word. 

_ He _ wasn’t here yet. 

But he was always so fashionably late—as the light ‘ _ ping _ ’ of the elevator announced the final hour. An impending presence was intimidating enough to heed immediate eyes dart from across the room and away from their work. The steel elevator doors had slid open with a gentle hum, often like resounding trumpets that could ease the heavy atmosphere. 

A dark, towering man stepped into the mechanical light, predatory in his walk as he took strides towards the metal railing, overlooking the worker ants akin to a ravenous bird in flight. The heads veered back to their screens, nearly disturbing him as he rolled his singular eye, the other hidden by a black patch. His footsteps were heavy, leaving an echoing impression of the walls. They were close—trained. 

He was no longer standing atop the balcony platform that presented itself as a stage; a beacon. But stepped down the staircase where someone seemed to be waiting for him. 

His nature didn’t seem to scare off the woman who came by his side, taking note of his slow glance to her, particularly eyeing at a packet of manila folders and classified information tucked under her shoulder. As stern as he was, but a bit more distressed. She was already awaiting his arrival, and not in the least bit intimidated, but already as attentive from monitoring the workers below, awaiting anything that could come off as remotely strange. 

_ They found something _ , he concluded, something that could even scare Agent Maria Hill. 

“Sir, thank you for coming,” Her eyes momentarily glanced at the grand screen that flickers for a moment, gathering the data that had been processed throughout a 22-hour period. 

She was smart enough to not be casual, but never even considered fearful. There was sweat forming at the back of her neck—not because of her boss’s demeanor alone, but rather the things she had seen today. 

“We’ve got a situation.” 

“Put it up.” 

His orders were heeded immediately; for his simple command sent the workers clamoring out of their seats to cluster their work in meaningful patterns. 

The grand screen, a large panel attached to the frontal wall, began filling with windows of coordinates, coding, and astronomical phenomena. The data was important, however, not important enough as it kept changing rapidly, refreshing every few seconds, constantly updating. 

In the middle of the cybernetic chaos, a particular window, bordered red, had overlapped everything before it. 

It was labeled, ‘ _ The Hubble Telescope _ ’. 

The visage was seemingly nothing at first glance, but soon twinkling, specks of white had begun filling the screen. This endless void of black began blossoming in technic color, forming spherical shapes and mist in lighter hues. The effulgence of each light was more beautiful than the last. Speculated as planets, but no one could be certain, because it was such a hazy and far image. 

The man in charge was neither too distracted, nor too uninterested, but his nose gave a crinkle as he eyed at a peculiar spot of the image. 

It was neither black nor was it any color the stars had radiated. He was drawn with cautiousness and curiosity to the light on the screen, but decided not to acquire the details so quickly; he wanted a briefing. 

“What exactly are we looking at here?” He asked as he waved his hand leisurely, somewhat unenthused. 

“Something we’ve never seen before.” Maria responded dejectedly, sparring a frown. 

“Asgardian?” He questioned with raised brows, “If it’s nothing we’ve ever seen before then we should be ready for another god at our doorstep.” 

“They’re too far from our sights, this is... _ much _ closer,” Maria reassured, but shook her head, “Besides, we won’t be hearing from them again unless needed. We’ve got to assume they’re busy and this is something else—something  _ beyond them _ .” 

The man didn’t respond to her reasoning, as he already was too faithful over the thought that the Asgardians wouldn’t be bothering them with an ill will any longer. He only watched as Maria fished her hand into her pocket, taking out a laser pointer that directed its light to the particular spot on the void. 

The red light trailed around the spot which did not seem to be sharing the same hue as the pointer. It flashed multiple, some with familiar hues, but none like anyone had ever seen. They were a mix, an amalgam of light and dark. It had been brimming with a color akin to fire, but wispy and hazy. A robust color that was stained like a drop of the sky—everything and anything, swirled of beauty and horror, obscurity and with an ethereal presence. 

“What...is _ that? _ ” 

Maria herself could not describe such a thing. After all her years dedicated to the agency, after witnessing life, death, and chaos unraveling among her own commitment, it was something unnatural. That was all she could really say about it, even after studying it after what seemed like the millionth time. With hope to find something new, she had thought that she would see something different with her superior’s assistance. But yet again, nothing of fruition. It may have been because it was more of an unspoken order that her concentration and hesitance increased tenfold. 

“I’m still unsure, sir.” Frustrated as she was, Maria had pulled herself together from bursting. Her mind could not string any kind of response that would suffice herself or her peers. After all the work, after everything they had done, they just didn’t know—nothing. 

It was better to give what she had, what the others had told her; her briefing. 

“That is the farthest thing in the galaxy ever recorded;  _ Galaxy MACS0647 _ . It is the closest thing to our galaxy yet the farthest thing we can see. This, sir, is a planet. A  _ flashing _ planet.” 

This was unprecedented. 

He turned to Maria, without an ounce of hesitance to reveal even a faint hint of fear. He was unsure of himself as he listened to the uneasiness in her tone. It was like watching a ticking bomb on countdown, ready to explode into hysteria. Upon hearing that this was the closest thing to Earth, and keeping in mind that it could, in fact, be a threat, his hands had been moved from behind his back. 

A starting point, just to have a head start, should he reach for his burner phone to contact S.H.I.E.L.D directly to give them a code red, or go even further and reach for his pager. 

Maria wanted to shrink back from his striking gaze, but stood firm, even at the balls of her feet. Her heels ached for steady ground, ready to kick off and retreat. Yet, instead of movement in her legs, she moved her eyes away from him and drew another trembling red circle of light. 

“Are you implying that something or someone is alive out there and sending a signal?” 

“We-we don’t know, but we can assume that, sir.” 

For a brief moment, he averted his eyes from the unnatural, blazing mass. After accepting that they were, in fact, in some sort of control of the situation, he began to nod. Something came from his nose, a shaky inhale, where an airy chuckle followed soon after, a result of a suppressed reaction. 

However, instead of expressing his judgement and revelation about this new occurrence, he lifted his head high and to the workers, once again stoic and devoid of emotional conflict. 

_ There was no need to worry _ , his eye seemed to say, as he, Nick Fury, displayed his classic sternness to the public. 

“Drop everything and find out whatever you can about that planet. Contact the experts, call astronomers, astronauts, hell, call the president. This may be our chance to save something that’s out of our reach.” 

“Sir, if I may ask,” Maria interjected, stepping forward with a slight kick from her heel, “How are we supposed to save something that is ‘ _ out of our reach _ ’?” 

Her boldness was something she couldn’t give a damn about. She merely awaited a reaction, holding still yet again as Nick Fury gave a single glance, before retreating up the staircase back to the elevator. 

Upon the platform, he took one last look at the vibrant planet, unknown if it held as much darkness as it did light. His unknown look of familiarity struck Maria to have some form of hope. An old, wise soul could say he knew what to do, as he may have done this before, but there was no one of a higher authority who could say such things out loud. 

His thoughts went abrupt as he turned, still not quite out of his own head. He stepped towards the sliding door of the opening elevator, before giving one last look to Maria Hill. 

Once inside, he uttered only two words; 

“ _ Call Stark _ .”

  
  
  



	2. Planet Amis 「2」

## 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐤𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐡

“After all these years, you’re still anxious.”

A woman’s voice, strong with intent began working its way in an echo, traveling through narrow walls. They paid homage deep in the labyrinth made of old tunnels, but was taken care of to the best of the servants. The stone was saved from mud, dust, and blood, but coated with the poised lady’s annoyance. Her hatred could not have come soon enough. 

“Pity to the gods, how on Amis did those fools think this was good enough?” Another wave of venom left through her hissing teeth, followed by a golden head shaking in frustration. 

The lady’s fingers worked its way up a loosened piece of silk fabric, curling and twisting to release some of the minimal creases, _a poorly efforted task_ , the woman noted. She would have a stern word to whoever decided to make such a distasteful appeal for her husband. Although he could agree that he was not very fond of the dark cravat, he rather appreciated their hard work for such a momentous occasion. 

“It can be forgiven,” The man soothed, taking her clamoring hands, “It’s not as horrid as my heartbeat—like the wings of a dragon on the first day of sunblight.” 

“Yet, a dragon can move a _little_ faster than the worried soldiers, can’t they?” The woman inquired teasingly, bringing her hands away from his warm capture. 

Her eyes lingered to the distance, almost not wanting to pull away just yet, now reveling in the light that was just beyond the pitch-black gates. Their pointed ends that resembled readied lances of war was failing to give her some linger of hope that they could pull this off. She wouldn’t stoop so low as to lie about her heart being akin to her husband’s. She was scared, too. 

“Are they ready?” She asked softly, careful as to make sure her voice did not drift into the light, where an audience laid in their wake. She could see them, writhing and roaring in their seats to watch blood and honor—to watch them, their everlasting king and queen. 

“Our youngest is a bit...timorous. But I’m sure he can appeal once we’ve announced him.” 

“He better,” She uttered in a low voice, pausing as the woman’s curiosity had gotten the best of her—unwanted curiosity. 

“And what of our _eldest?”_

  


『✭』

  


“Please, tell me you’re not going to do this.” 

The labyrinth was a dangerous place if one did not know the way. The floors were incomplete, missing with jagged chunks that lay above dark, bottomless pits and discarded passages. The golden palace was a haven compared to the wet shadows of the underground maze. But although the chilling atmosphere was unwelcoming to many, there were already occupants within who had already grown accustomed to the darkness. One could say, ever since childhood. 

They were vigilant beings, in no way shape or form, _inexperienced_. 

The young man was a heavily-accented fellow, using his empty commands to try and persuade the figure next to him from stepping out of their dark and seclusive sanctum. Their harsh whisper traveled up the walls and out a barred slot near the high ceiling. Between the iron bars was light seeping through and spilling over their feet. The male’s eyes turned akin to evergreen, narrowing to try and make out what had been on the other side of the window. 

_Where were they again? What were they even doing here?_

The person in question—the female who dawned shadow and armor like casual-wear, merely turned his way to flash an indifferent smile. Now, suited for a bloodbath, she released a shallow laugh. 

“Krow, you’re an absolute dread. Not fun, at all. What’s the harm in joining the fight? It’ll be so exciting!” 

Her words seemed to have irked him—the way his tongue clicked against his teeth and his eyes nearly rolled out of their sockets. Even after all these years, he still hadn’t mastered the art of entertaining her wit. 

“Because you’re not even enrolled! They’ll be expecting me instead of you—who, I might add—is supposed to be up there with your family instead of getting ready to knock the living daylights out of everyone!” 

A sharp and short sigh escaped through her teeth, irking Krow further as he tried to soothe his upcoming migraine. 

“Honestly, if you were to be found in such a state...” Krow began begrudgingly, snapping a glare at her. 

“No one would see me any differently. Merely the field.” A laugh made his chest skitter, but repressed by his mouth pushed into a wriggling, thin line. 

His harsh arguments weren’t cared for even in the slightest, instead drifting straight through her ears and out the slot, where they were directly under and aside the action they were supposed to attend. Even now did they see it; the action—the _battle_. 

From a mere distance, Krow watched two contenders batting their fists together, their blotches of skin turning from red to purple, where he could have sworn he saw something red burst and leak from under their pale flesh. Red spilt through spidering cuts, where he finally had enough of his violent wincing and flinches. He was never supposed to feel queasy over such a quarrel, but he wasn’t allowed to dislike it either. 

And Krow was going to let her walk _straight_ into it. 

In a last resort, he turned to look at her, hoping to find some sort of resilience to the cause. However, as he only saw the light in her eyes stir, not of anxiousness but of excitement and anticipation. 

Krow had lurched from his slouched back, putting out his hand to hold hers. He didn’t like feeling the scratchy fabric of the bandages wrapped over her palms, finding them rather appalling. 

But neither did he have it in himself to compliment her skin, drawn in scribbles in the colors of unfaded and nearly pink scars. Her fingers, what was once feather-like and smooth like a porcelain doll, had become lightly calloused over time. Krow could not remember the last time when his dear friend managed two days without her hands being folded with gauze. 

She trained religiously, near to the point of collapsing from exhaustion. But even so, she would do it all again the next day.

His other hand worked upward, drawing his fingers to her wrist where he finally felt warm and untainted skin. The cosmology of her form was stilling and striking, he could not deny that. In his hands he felt holy fire, the rimmed blaze of a star, but felt the chills of a harsh and storming snowblight where hail rained until the moon had sunk. 

Her body wasn’t accustomed to the touch, Krow knew that very well. 

But it was enough to gain her attention—her completely speechless attention. 

“ _Please_ ,” He whispered desperately, his face brewing a tired flush, “Don’t do this. You’ll get hurt and I cannot be there to protect you from what comes,”

He could hear her heartbeat; slow but pounding. 

“You’re always so prone to hurting yourself,” A ghost of a laugh echoed around the mossy, stone walls, “Remember the _Battle of_ _Cask-tar_? I remember watching across the valleys, a girl, raising her lance up in victory before her weakened and bruised hand dropped it on her head.”

Some stifle of laughter bubbled from Y/N’s chest, an unkempt grin stretching across her slanted mouth. Krow had laughed, too—laughing because she did. He yearned for some time to hear it genuinely. Y/N had been so quiet these past few weeks.

“But not today. Please? This is not our time for that.. Let’s wait another day?” 

Krow was smart enough not to show such cowardice in public view, keeping his composure even now to his dear friend. He only gave a little, a mere fraction of how he truly felt. He began to be bolder, showing more, drawing their hands to his lips all in a fluid movement. Their complexity was frightening but he was accustomed to it now. 

Their silence was their own conversation, through their familiarity was their tone, the suppressed notions wafting over this moment. 

There was no tension as Y/N slipped her hand from his, though acknowledging his gestures through a chuckle of glee. The dark shades over her face could now be seen, as she stepped into the light, showing her smile; the epitome of genuine serenity. 

_“No.”_

Krow’s heart, beating like a proud, winged beast, did not still nor drop to her declaration. His expression changed, not of disappointment, but of a tired smile. He let her go, watching as she journeyed out of their haven and to her people. 

He should have known better—he could not extinguish the wild star. 

  


『✭』

  


_“Welcome, Planet Amis!”_

A mighty voice, accompanied by the deafening mantra of cheers and praise had rumbled through every reach across the golden planet, had beaconed from the grandeur of the coliseum. Creatures with a variety of looks—ranging from strange to ever-so-curious, smiling—had enjoyed this hungry ambiance. Their eyes had been gathering every little inch of the field below the marble rails, over the guarded staircases with ringlets of gold, the generous touch for a planet such as this—a home of honor, blood, and elements. 

All eyes were on them—the successors of worlds; the _Skaraeith_ family. 

The crowd's energy, taken into the form of raps of impatience against the stone edges of steps, condemned the Krylorian woman to begin the show. Their writhing and excited wriggling never came from an unslakable bloodlust, but to merely show their enthusiasm for the home that kept them alive and thriving for so long. The prosperity of Amis was bountiful, and any fool who couldn’t know better, would be disturbing eons of peace and quiet. 

Their thundering raps at the ground had jittered the core of the planet, an echo rippling from the highest peak of the _Great_ _Terius_ _Mountain_ to the clouded kingdom above, sleek with starlight. Shimmers of unfathomable effulgence painted the sky in bursts, like powder staining the cool black of night. 

Under those shadows, those warm bodies of darkness, Y/N finally stepped into the dark light. 

“Here we go.” 

_“For eons, Amis—this garden of tranquility—has maintained its ways through strength, honor, and connection. There’s not a day that goes by that smiles break into sadness, but at once it becomes so overbearing. We come together to celebrate this momentous occasion, for those chosen to reveal their true power, and earn their rightful place in this kingdom.”_ The Krylorian woman gave a grand courtesy, gesturing with a fluid, gloved hand to a sleek platform on the battleground. 

Figures of various ages stepped into the light, soaking in the eager stares from millions like a passing phase. Eight, figures of light and eminent promise, took their place. Six children, in every aspect, appear as a variety, and two—a humble man and a graceful woman. 

_“This hierarchy, descended from the blood of the ancients, seeks your very best potential. The Skaraeith children, ”_

The oldest of the children, two boys, with faces of youth and refined elegance crinkled into an unseemly and poorly-mannered exchange of laughter. 

Their amusement was collected by the four others; female triplets with three varieties of differences, their smiles nearly the same but not quite, and the youngest, a male spitfire, who had broken into the loudest laugh of all. 

Their smiles had been sucked hard into a thin line, after catching the flash of their mother’s glare, to which they remained silent, but their presence lit up with each other, even beyond such formalities. 

Though the queen’s glance was quick, she was sharp enough to notice one of her children—the witful eldest—was not there with them. She was irked by this, trying hard to suppress the urge to complain loudly to her husband, but instead subtly leaned close to his ear, fuming with gritted teeth.

“Where is Y/N?” She pushed the words from her mouth as if her tongue was made of fiery lead. 

A clueless blink and a moment to process his wife’s words came before her anxiously-awaited response. A bit of his nerves regaining mobility came after.

“Is she not in front me?” He questioned naively, not quite having enough courage to look over his shoulder.

“ _Oh, dearest gods…_ ” Gardenia raised a hand to her head, cursing the moonless night.

His nervousness really does get the best of him at the worst of times.

Krow had not been fond of bustling places, never saved from being pushed hard by his shoulders or his toes being stepped on as he hurried to squeeze through millions of people thrashing in their seats. He never had a flair for bloody arts, finding it repulsive that red could so brutally taint something clean. With black and blue bruises that turn into a grotesque yellow and violet, he could already envision how Y/N would look after the fight; pristine and fresh, like a daisy.

She was so trained, Krow was infuriated that he didn’t need to worry at all. Even somehow, it was almost worse than watching her get hurt. 

Finally sinking into an empty seat, albeit, with a tiny questionable stain at the corner of the plush cushion, Krow seated with folded arms, growling lowly under his breath.

“The things I do for her.” He muttered thoughtlessly, breathing a heavy sigh before looking out into the field. Never did he allow himself to think unkindly, however.

From what he could see, the king had been addressing his gratitude to the people of Amis and riling them up for the impending battles. What bitterness he had left in his soul was for the detail he noticed with the Skaraieth children; Y/N was not with them. She truly did not go back on her word, of course.

In that same distance, he had met the eyes of the queen. 

In no shape or form was he intimidated, however, he could feel the dormant resentment rise in his chest, bubbling and sparkling. His gaze went alive as he saw her, staring straight at him, like she wanted to speak her refined mind harsh words of criticism. Instead, she was forced to mouth them;

_‘Useless guard-dog.’_

Krow felt his heart sink deep into his chest.

“It seems the stars shine upon us tonight.”

The King of Amis, _Amwren Ramses_ , a primordial being with the essence of a humble man, looked to the familiar darkness of the sky with fond eyes. Him, being what he was, he could have only waved his hand, and night would have ceased into day. It would have brought yet another morning of hope and prosperity, but the impending wrath of his wife, _Gardenia E’rya_. 

Like night and day, the two monarchs fueled the world of Amis with the promise of tomorrow. For the event to end so early just because of the minor inconvenience of Y/N’s absence, Gardenia would paint her blue skies red and the white clouds into a storming grey, akin to a horizon of smoke across a red battlefield. 

“Your daughter has five seconds to come down here before I make an impression.” Gardenia spat quickly, gathering with frantic hands the holds of her children as she ushered them away, bent on getting them as far from her rage as possible.

The youngest pure-blooded prince, _Wisp Lorcán_ , however, stubbornly wriggled within his mother’s tight hold, puffing his cheeks as through his efforts, his messy hair pooled over his beamingly wide, magenta eyes.

“But, mother!” He began to protest with a whine, “I want to see the fight up close.”

“Come, Wisp,” The soothing and low voice of his second-eldest brother, _Cervantes Laurent_ , took Wisp by his small hand, guiding him gently to an auto-piloted miniature vessel, trying hard to get rid of his brother’s confliction, “Sit next to me and we can watch the fight together.”

“No, brother, come sit with me,” _Morok Conláed_ , the pure-blooded, first-born child had pulled Wisp’s other hand, grinning wickedly, “I know a place where it’s just close enough to catch a decapitated head if we get lucky enough to witness it.”

“ _Brother, you’re sick_.” A monotonous chorus of the triplets drew to their twisted and airily laughing brother, who only shrugged and let Wisp be taken by his sisters— _Yven Vana’dey, Florentine Dhara, and Demetrius A’enea._

“Must our children all descend into madness?” Ramses teased lightly as he watched his children enter the vessel, escorting them to their own podium where they could watch the battle at a safe distance. 

“ _Your_ children, dear,” Gardenia corrected lowly, “ _Yours_.”

  


『✭』

  


“Any gear you take will be returned in the second parlor. Try not to break them, please. I’ll get a pay-cut if one of you gets too careless.”

Near blinding, white reflections cascaded against the contenders’ numerous pieces of armor. The Amisian knight, hailed as part of the _Atralis_ , had been pacing for numerous minutes, briefing the contenders of the competition’s rules. They understood well, despite hailing from different planets and other galaxies, but they remained here—the home of prospering life. They were smarter than to disturb that peace. However, it was questionable if they understood good sportsmanship.

The first parlor contained the variety of lifeforms that would soon be presented as gladiators. They weren’t competing for their lives—but for their purpose. Which, to Y/N, as she was sitting patiently at the farthest corner of the awaiting, small hallway, that her purpose— _her_ _fate_ —wouldn’t be decided by battling for Amis. 

The sincerity of her smile, hidden well under the shadows of her dark hood woven into her fitted armor, was directed to the door that poured stage-light to her far reach. If Y/N were to grasp such a thing, the contortion of her hand would bend it to her will. 

_If only,_ she laughed inwardly to herself, if only she was able to turn it away.

“Nervous?” 

A gravelly, rugged voice lingered just above her shoulder, near the vibration of her chest that came from the bass-undertones. Without lifting her drooping hood to reveal herself, all that appeared before her was a Kronan. There was some form of genuine intent in his heavy words, breathed to her as if by his mere breath, her body would fade like ash in the wind.

Her head shook with confidence, revealing to him the smile of what little light she welcomed on her face—pearly, white teeth minimally stunned the fidgeting Kronan. No one should look that happy to get beat up with their small stature.

“What weapon are you bringing on then?” The mass of rocks moved, creating a rugged, grinding noise as he gestured a stone finger towards the Atralis knight who continued pacing down the hall.

“That one told me I shouldn’t get any small to medium weapons,” The Kronan shook his head, shrugging, “Daggers or broadswords aren’t suited for a giant pile of rocks. A load of garbage if you ask me. I’m a gentle guy.” 

His words, however, weren’t enough to convince himself, as Y/N could easily tell by how the Kronan kept nodding to himself with a hard stare to the ground.

“I could imagine that.” Y/N agreed softly, adjusting her arm-guards.

“I think you’d be perfect for those kinds of weapons. I’ll need to settle on a club though, something big and bulky. What’d you say?”

“Oh, I won’t be needing a weapon.” Y/N answered honestly, her smile aching her cheeks.

His bewildered silence was expected, coming from someone so significantly smaller and so arrogant. Not moments later, did the Kronan let out a single round of laughter, earning the jaundice attention from his fellow contenders.

“ _N-No weapon?_ ” The Kronan sputtered between laughs, wiping a stray tear, “Someone like you so foolish enough to step onto that field empty-handed would be ripped into shreds!”

“You truly doubt me?” Y/N asked calmly, folding her hands together.

“If this is some dream or goal of yours, I have every reason to believe in your impending failure instead.” The Kronan coughed his last laugh, glowering upon her with the increment of wickedness in his grin.

“So, it is _doubt_ then,” Y/N hummed thoughtfully before sliding to her feet, standing in front of him, “Your dream must be...to see someone so foolish to get beaten into a pulp, I assume.”

The faltering amusement had shone in Y/N’s dark eyes, blinking only once to completely view this figure, radiating with light behind her, stoop down to his height and deliver in a low voice;

“ _Doubt_...kills more dreams than failure ever will.” 

“Still no sign of her?” 

“No sign, my queen.”

As refined and beautiful as Gardenia was in appearance, she could no longer conceal the ugliness of her anger as her gloved hand snapped crookedly. If the sudden gesture had truly broken her wrist, a massive ray of blinding light would not have beamed from her palms and crashed through the once pristine and golden-carved ceiling.

At the end of their annual presence of the event, the two rulers had confined themselves into their own spaces of hurried secrecy. Many of the Atralis guards had scoured up and down the palace walls trying to find Y/N, but neither under her bed nor in the dark and endless garden was she there. Gardenia and Ramses had to console the absence of Y/N, who would soon have to appear to announce the top contenders which would be close to an hour from now.

Time was running out.

The battle was not far, but merely to their side as the open pillars displayed the top view of the event, continuing to roar busily with excitement as contenders kept beating each other, besting themselves with their strength. The two could barely make a word, had it not been for the concealed wall to the other side of them.

Ramses, standing beside Gardenia, wondered if he still had the chance of appeasing her wrath. The corners of his usually smiling lips fell into a softened, sad frown. He wondered if Y/N got her wild and rebellious side from him, as he was quite the troublemaker in his younger days, or if he was just a doting parent overall. It was nature versus nurture, and Ramses could not fathom the idea of Y/N’s own will. 

But, his sincerity speaks volumes as he rounds to meet his wife face-to-face, drawing her close as he remembers the forgotten days of long ago.

_She feels different_ , Ramses thinks somberly, _she was much warmer_ , unlike Gardenia who was cold and so full of fury.

“You know I’ll never forgive you if this continues.” Her mumbling warnings go unheeded as Ramses circles his arms around her, chuckling slowly.

He puts more effort into his words than his touch, only thinking about the highly possible, chaotic future of his eldest daughter, smiling through as he only manages to picture her in complete content—happiness—possibly marrying. 

Her absence was enough for him to believe that Y/N wasn’t wrong for running.

“Y/N is far from a rebellious youth. She is vigilant. She has fought through many, many battles. Escaping from one for the first time would be good for her.”

“You’re allowing her to make us look like absent-minded fools? Or politicians who can’t be punctual?” 

“I’m allowing her freedom, darling.” He corrects gently, frowning minimally as he begins to think of the fate she abandoned. 

Gardenia had seemed to be thinking about it, too. Her hold around Ramses’ shoulders become tighter yet weaker from her biceps. It was enough for her to pull away, stepping back from Ramses who didn’t falter into such sad expressions.

“I don’t have the stomach to listen to this right now. I need to find her before the second round begins.” Gardenia begins to walk away, devoid of any sympathy Ramses thought she had. She is so different now. Not entirely in a bad way, but with much more persistence. In a way, it unnerves him.

_“That boy,”_ She began grimly, “ _Krow...Krow Vulnir_. I saw him in the audience. I chastised him, but rightfully so.”

“Y/N’s friend?” Ramses questioned with a tilted head, “Krow is an honest man. He is good to Y/N as he is good to us. He would know better than to conceal Y/N’s whereabouts.”

Gardenia’s eyes held a particular sparkle; amusement. She could very well break into a fit of laughter. The confusion was mostly drawn from the fact that she doubted Krow, surely not just by his ability and skill to keep Y/N out of trouble.

_“You laugh, yet I’m here ready to relieve you from your impatient agony.”_

Such a voice in that tone would have had him killed on the spot. However, with their minimally dire situation, they rather had Krow’s sharp wit slide for now. He had been standing at the end of the balcony, smiling cheekily, mostly at his queen who put an end to her fuming.

“ _You_. Finally making use of yourself?”

Gardenia released a mirthless laugh, unperturbed Krow who paid his attention to the king who had gently taken hold of his wife’s arm, in an attempt to keep her from lunging.

“Yes, in fact. She’s begun already—beating down the overgrown, half-lizard down there. She was so determined and stubborn on the matter, I couldn’t stop her.”

“You let her go?” Gardenia questioned slowly, “You just let her go and didn’t say anything about it?”

Ramses had released his wife and neared the pillars overlooking the field. From what he could see, there were two contenders of drastically different sizes. An armor-clad, scaled beast snarls against the palms of the smaller, humanoid fighter. 

“I find it wise that he didn’t,” Ramses countered softly, “Poor lad would have gotten his head ripped clean off.”

Their strength appears to be overwhelming, as the soles of the smaller contender doesn’t budge nor scuff against the dirt. Only their fingers curl upwards against the scaled snout. 

The beast recoils, something sliced off some of his scales.

Ramses holds his heavy breath where it sinks into his stomach, watching with trained eyes as glittering transparency begins to push from trained, reflective hands. Their fingers dance intricately through the air, like painting on a canvas of body-heat and night winds, bending the will of what appeared to be water. Wrathful and full of intensity, this whip of liquid begins to slash against the beast’s metallic pieces that protects its vulnerable underbelly.

But even so, as the hooded figure’s arm shoots towards the beast’s leg, the clear rope constricts vicely around the weakened and swollen limb. One graceful fling in the air was all it took to send the beast flying and exposed, every piece of armor discarded carelessly, collecting the pale and red-stained dirt. The hooded figure had only stood in the ever-changing light, unmoving and it was uncertain that they even broke a sweat. As the whip dispelled from their hands and into the air, the figure was slow and collected. Even from such a distance, there was no visible evidence that any effort was put into the entire fight.

A gentle rain began to pour throughout the battlefield, cool and blissful, nearly forgetful towards the scaled opponent who seemed to be conscious enough to experience such a calm feeling, all from the weapon—the Amisian—that took him down. 

_Yes_ , Ramses thought breathlessly, _that’s my daughter._

“Brilliant, isn’t she?” Krow questioned from beside Ramses, smiling proudly at Y/N who raised a single hand in victory.

“Brilliant,” Gardenia repeated with wide eyes, “Yet foolish.”

“Yes, yes,” Ramses dismissively hummed as his eyes stayed fixated on his progeny, “But mostly brilliant.”

  


『✭』

  


The first thing that Y/N expected once she headed back into the first parlor, would be a bustling round of cheers from the other contenders, praising her for her bravery of going empty-handed, but quite skilled in her inherited abilities. Yes, she had gotten so used to such a predicament that she had already braced her ears for the close and near-to yelling of astonishment they would have. She didn’t think twice of her muscles that were aching terribly after being thrown across the end of the hall. To say it was painful, it might as well have been an understatement.

There weren’t many expectations that showed in her favor, not at all. After being flung at such a distance with brute force, Y/N expected the Kronan she was conversing with earlier to have been the one to put her in her place. But, as Y/N slowly cracked an eye open—the massive pile of boulders was saluting.

_Was the Atralis General here? Oh, wait. Haha, she was the Atralis General._

Behind an ever-changing light was the figure of a woman, menacing as she was loud, her wrath speaking in volumes as she yanked Y/N from her awkward position off the floor, tugging her from the ankle. Y/N scowled at the vice grip, feeling light sting her from the leg up, nearly numbing her nerves. 

She couldn’t strike what she couldn’t see. As a result, she let the woman’s heel jab her in the stomach, knocking the wind right out of her—nearly puncturing something important.

“Nice to see you, too, _mother_.” Y/N wheezed lowly, holding her aching abdomen. 

“Your rebelliousness nearly cost someone their life,” Gardenia began, seething with eyes that beamed with intense heat, “Have you no shame? You were supposed to be up there with us and telling your speech to our people. But here you are, dressed in such _tacky_ armor. You should be ashamed.”

“If I could have the _permission_ to assure you, _mother_ , I was in a disguise. No one could tell it was me.”

Y/N groaned as she stood on her legs, leaning shortly against the wall while reaching a hand behind her head, snagging and emphasizing the folded hood hanging from her neck.

“That ridiculous thing is not your saving grace, and neither is mine.”

Y/N let her hand fall to her sides, a bit disappointed she didn’t use her fist to try to strike at Gardenia. Even so, she could not dare take the risk of battling her own mother, even despite their differences. 

**_“Half-blooded bastard.”_ **

Gardenia’s voice was barely even a whisper, yet Y/N heard it clear as day.

_Ah, yes, that’s right. How in the world could she have forgotten? How could she forget the one thing that kept her different and alone throughout her entire life?_

Gardenia wasn’t her mother, not by blood at all. _A step-mother, a surrogate_.

_Why didn’t she strike her, anyway?_


	3. Wrath of Water 「3」

##  𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭-𝐁𝐨𝐫𝐧, 𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐟-𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝, 𝐅𝐮𝐥𝐥-𝐖𝐢𝐭

When Krow Vulnir arrives back into the stands of the coliseum, he expects to be seated back on the lower levels, closer to the field and at a respectable distance from Y/N. He intended to remain keen on these final two contenders, only catching a fleeting glimpse of their figures under shadows, behind gated walls and darkened light. He remained clueless, distasteful of the thought— _his_ _position_. He should know what she’s up against.

However, when Ramses instead, ushered him hurriedly along the spiraling stairs connected to the lower parlor, he bites back words of refusal. He was smarter than to deny his grace, let alone provoke the queen beside him further with faux charisma. He wordlessly follows their shadows, his own becoming his only company as he reaches the royal podium, decorated in gold, shimmering pillars. The light blemishes compliment his flushed complexion, his face scrunched as he notices he’s much closer to the exploding, vibrant bursts of light.

The children, not at all modest with him unlike their usual appointed company, begin pulling him closer to the finely sculpted rails, leaning near the edge where the echoes of happiness makes his twinging heart swell. A cool night breeze is the final push to overwhelm him with exhilaration.

“Y/N should be arriving soon.” The voice of the youngest prince nearly startles him, Krow turns low to Wisp who remains grinning, “Excited?”

His question doesn’t even faze Krow out of his creeping smile.

“Yes. But more worried. Aren’t you afraid you’ll see your sister wrapped in such droopy, dirty, red bandages? Have no sympathy?”

“Y/N’s anger creates a fear unparalleled. Seeing her in bandages would only reassure me.”

His laugh is innocent, but Krow can already imagine Wisp’s devious grin if he could approach his sister after her match. Such mischief can turn dry as his throat if Y/N were to catch wind of her half-brother underestimating her. Krow had wormed his way to become a witness to these siblings, to see what the public couldn’t, and to hope that, one day, he could be their saving grace. 

The spectators became hushed, their raps against the stone from under had the vibrations numbed, no longer running along the great walls. No one on that grand podium could feel the rumbling at the soles of their feet, their eyes now peering down to the field. 

The gate at one side of the rounded walls had lifted abruptly, the clanking metal clashing loosely with iron chains that dangled at a boulder’s hip. Several tattered patches of cloth covered the weakest points, but one could argue that it was suitable armor. The Kronan that had just stepped into the limelight was, in actuality, walking armor himself. The moving mass of humanoid rocks had raised his fist, club in hand, gritting his pebbled teeth.

“Bring forth my next and final victory!” The Kronan’s boasting voice echoed, erupting cheers from every corner once again, but kept the anticipation at its course as the gate in his sights had just begun to open.

Amis turned into excited murmurs as the trident ends of the opposing gates yanked forcibly upwards, revealing a shadow so significantly smaller in stature. One step into the light, and there was immediate judgement. Their armor was a pathetic excuse as a redeeming quality in comparison of the Kronan whose eyes narrowed with jaundice. It seemed to be the only opinion that mattered here, as she focused solely on his creeping smile. His mind reeled back bitterly, only remembering the mocking grin that was revealed to him atop such arrogant words. But a mirthless laugh rang throughout the reddened sand below, a ring of dust circling near his feet, his breaths heavy.

“You’re still standing,” The Kronan scoffed, raising the hilt of the bulbous club in a point, “Honestly, I’m not all that surprised. You must be quite strong.”

“Don’t be fooled. I am the epitome of a mess.”

A shared grin split their mouths, their heads turning to the commanding grounds-master, who set the stage and left them to their own. The worlds were watching, but they were keen on each other—every movement, every look has a purpose here. 

“ _Begin!_ ”

Amis taught their soldiers, people, and children arts of war, but never mishandled. It could be why as a half-blooded yet true Amisian, did Y/N strike first with nearly unseen subtly. 

The Kronan was ashamed of displaying such cowardice, reduced to flinch, his one, beady eye cracked open to see his club scrape against her vambrace. Fiery splinters sprayed across their faces, the friction created between the two’s advances soon broke apart in a sickening crack. 

Y/N maneuvered swiftly out of the way from the Kronan’s plummeting club, only getting the worst of it in her ankle that merely bent with a curled leg. Without a single wince, Y/N’s expression only scrunched up in revulsion, blocking with her locked forearms of the Kronan’s leg as he tried hoisting the club back onto his range.

The Amisian moved in for a strike, but had been lurching in sync with the Kronan who was set in keeping her in front of him. In an attempt to throw him off, Y/N caught his leg again, elbowing the joint crookedly before hearing an immense cry of pain ripple through the field.

Y/N breathed for a good measure, finally feeling something stir within her core. This aching feeling that she suppressed for three long months was now at an end. Her grueling years of training, her weeks of restraint for bloodshed were now finally being put to the test. She feared, however, that this may be her last.

_And_ , as Y/N thought grimly, _it might as well have been_ , as her jaw met with the herculean force of the club that sent her flying. 

  


『✭』

  


Krow had to hold his breath as he watched Y/N skid across the field on her heels and then onto her knees mid-way, her head hanging low. Although he was reminded that she remained capable, as Y/N had risen to back up, he was frozen between awe and doubt. Her kempt hair had now been undone, sagging messily over her face as she lifted it to spit red into the dirt. Krow had chosen to stay hopeful, but could not resist drawing his teeth out to sink into his lower lip hard. 

He had been worse before; nearly in tears, trembling until he couldn’t feel his nerves, eyes full of terror. This was child’s play compared to what he had seen. But still, _that wa_ s _one hell of a hit_.

_Hands_ , Y/N thought bluntly to herself, _she forgot about his hands—his hands were still holding a weapon._

“Forgetful. Seems like I underestimated the great and powerful first-born.”

Although his words were heavy in exhaust, the Kronan’s daring nature didn’t falter even an ounce. As he finally gripped the hilt of the club comfortably, he examined Y/N through bold and heavy strides, prolonging her manageable range. 

Y/N could hear him, even with the slight ringing in her ear, raising a hand to wipe away the red that dribbled down her chin. Her identity hadn’t been revealed, as her hood stayed fastened. All she could conclude was that he was irritably keen.

“You knew?”

“Figured it out just now, after you tried striking me. Fast feet, all I’ve ever known here is that the battles are never this short. But now, I’m not so sure.”

Y/N gave a mirthless laugh, however, empty of hostility.

“Forgive me. It’s been a while; hands-on isn’t really my forte. I am out of practice.” 

“Hard to believe, coming from you,” The Kronan hummed curiously, yet thoughtlessly, “I’ve heard all about you. Quite frankly, I’ve been keeping my hopes up.”

A short silence lingered in this roaring field. The spectators didn’t dare question what was happening on the field, as they couldn’t hear within that range, but continued to cheer encouraging words. From the royal podium, however, the monarchs were beginning to grow anxious for Y/N, who hadn’t moved yet.

Even Krow wondered if the hit she had taken was suddenly too much.

“What exactly have you heard?” Y/N wondered quietly, yet her words were eligible enough as it sliced through the heavy night. The Kronan only gave a smirk.

“ _The Bastard Heir_ , yeah? _Beauty, The Night Omen, Conqueror, The Last Wind, and Wild Star_. You have quite a reputation for yourself—stretching back hundreds and thousands of years. Still, I wonder how you manage to stay in such a shape.”

The soles of Y/N’s shoes stayed firm into the red, moistened dirt, palms straying away from her face as she let this Kronan—no, this _contender_ —continue to speak.

“You’re rank in the battlefield,” The Kronan continued, drawing closer, “Thirsty for the blood of men and monsters alike. I’ve heard you’ve killed many. Many deserving and some not. How, I wonder, did you manage to earn the praise; ‘ ** _pacifist_** ’?”

Y/N drew a long breath, feeling the innards of her throat begin to drip with heat and coolness, her nose stinging from the pressure as her fingers creakingly curled. 

“You may live here quietly, but how long do you think you can stay like this, princess?”

Y/N reached behind her head, removing her hood, where light finally reached brighter and blazing eyes.

_“How long do you think you can remain in peace?”_

Materializing from the air that had grown colder, wavered, and surged, Y/N’s hand acted purely on instinct. But the club in the Kronan’s— no, this _fool’s_ —hand had been lanky and unwrapped, barely moving. It was a _horrendous_ excuse.

The spectators had been turned into a mindless sea of voices. Y/N couldn’t make out what they were screaming at her what to do; maybe just to end the fight quickly. She wanted that, too, she couldn’t deny it for much longer. The tidal of violent force ran cold in her veins, this anger— _something_ she hadn’t felt in a long time—was beginning to get to her. Taking control now was out of the question, as Y/N raised her pulsing hand.

Splinters splayed and was lost under the unstained yellow, where the contender could suddenly feel lighter on his right side; his hand. With slow eyes, trailing down to his palm, nothing remained there but the metallic, cylindrical wrap that slipped from his abruptly loose hold. What was left of his weapon; what Y/N could not destroy with her abilities, manifested itself before the audience who roared like sunblight dragons to the blistering and vibrant sky.

“You want to know what I think?” The Kronan turned to see Y/N, peering and piercing into his face, smiling, before suddenly feeling an aching pain in his ribs.

With no weapon of any sort to protect him, he was forced to engage in hand-to-hand combat. Unlike before, when he was armed and what was purely misunderstood on his own behalf, Y/N was blocking every single one of his advances with ease. Her strength didn’t dent, nor was she fazed by the collision of his hardened minerals slamming against her own fists. 

She kept pushing through as she lurched her elbow in his nose, reaching with her other hand over to constrict and twist his arm. Her heel stayed planted on the small of his back, continuously pushing his upper-half closer to the ground and his shoulder writhing.

“Truthfully; _I don’t think I ever had it_.” 

Words of false malice slipped from Y/N’s quick tongue, but not as quick as her free arm extending like the speed of a skilled arrow. The aim that reached her fingertips spewed water that moved with grace. A torrent collected in her palms, drawing molecules from the moist air that bends to her will. 

For a fraction of a second, Y/N needed to remind herself where she was; she was at a playfield—a _contest_. She was not in the middle of war. 

However, her friend, watching with the nearly fearful children had never felt prouder. He hadn’t seen her often enough when she got like this; riled up and turned from defense to offense. He was breathless as he spotted the way her eyes flickered against the reflective beams of the limelight, clearly repulsed. Krow’s heart swelled mysteriously, assuming that it had only been a long time since her last real fight—savoring every movement and moment.

_“You...won’t gain a fair victory...if you do this!”_

The Kronan was sadly right, in more ways than one. Y/N couldn’t keep doing this to slake her boredom. Her training became too easy, no matter how hard she pushed herself. The sweat from her brow had only turned into sunblights’s humidity. Nothing could be better than to actually fight for a cause, and she knew she couldn’t contain it any longer.

However, with this presumptuous prick…

Y/N stretched his body further, invoking another string of growling pain. Clear tendrils came with a wave of her nails, coiling from the surface just under their forms to wrap around the Kronan’s ankles. She felt a challenge thunder against her leg, raps against her leg brought out a low growl under Y/N’s throat, her arm twisting his higher, along with the coils that now constricted his spine.

He was trying to overpower her conjuring. But she wouldn’t let him.

“Go ahead. _Do it_. Underestimate me again. That’ll be fun.”

Feeling the ground with shaky, sweating palms, the Kronan reached with his fingertips the discarded metal cylinder that had come from the destroyed club, molding it desperately into his wet hands. Pebbled teeth ground against each other from opposing jaws, mustering, through the pain, enough strength in his torso.

His head arches and so does his arm, something in his hand that hit Y/N in her nose that spurt rubies. Her head had no strength to keep itself still as it was hit, so her head—along with her body—was finally flung away from the Kronan. His heavy steps worked against the power of water after immediate release. His hand now drops the metallic cylinder with a victorious smirk painting his jagged lips.

Water had dripped from down his legs as Y/N hit the ground with a minor fall. The arch of her neck suffered a certain crack, however, ignored. The Amisian was nimble in the face of danger, the threat before her eyes as she pushed herself up in a crouch with the back of her wrist, an itching irritation forming in the back of her head.

  


『✭』

  


“I don’t like where this is going.” 

Krow’s doubtful confession was slow and lingered like a heavy breath. Wisp is certain that he sees what he sees, despite his much younger age, but doesn’t have the courage to reassure him. Krow’s eyes were already fixed with premature judgement on the way Y/N was breathing; slow and shallow. From the edges of his heels to the roots of his dark hair, Krow knows she was bound to break soon. Out of practice shouldn’t have been a problem with Y/N. And yet, there she was staggering to get back into a stance. 

_Why was she hesitating?_

If Y/N were to answer that question; her silence would be her only thoughtful answer.

Miniature, swirling tides formed into her hands, where a sleet of ice had begun to turn thicker and whiter with pale blue. The air that swirled around her form was akin to a storm, brother to a howling wind and sister to a heavy rain.

Y/N needed to remind herself that she was also fighting to get this over with—not playing for the win. 

Broad icicles in tremendous sizes with tips that outmatched a soldier’s broadswords hurled towards the Kronan whose dodges and roll were just barely enough. Y/N could feel every ounce of his relief the closer he got with each duck. Drinking in the sight made her hungry for more. The pointed tips drove into the air, synchronizing with Y/N’s arms that darted like striking vipers.

As the amount became dangerously less, Y/N switched from long distance offense to up close and personal. Her footwork is wobbly but manages to leave enough space in the gap between them to raise her knee, hitting his hip where his stone palms clutches the aching spot tightly. Her calf extends where she kicks him higher into his side, her pointed toes reaching right in the middle of his spine and she feels the crack beneath his clattering body. Y/N is taken by the loud cry that rings into the air, watching narrowly with precision as the Kronan doubled over in agony.

An uppercut to the chin is finally enough to send him flying onto his back, and clear tendrils sprout from the ground again, encasing and trapping him there like some kind of feral animal. With one last conjure, water solidifies into a sharpened blade, shifting like a dagger that reflexively twirled for good measure before it was gripped tight in her hold. Y/N’s leap in the air isn’t processed by the defeated contender, until he notices with wide eyes that she plummeting down straight for him.

The wavering reflection of the liquid blade nearly misses his sight, but he braces for the impact and his throat that just might as well be sliced into.

Y/N had braced herself as well, sucking in a tight breath as she was about to drive the dagger only into his shoulder. While falling, Y/N’s iron reminder not to be reckless repeated in echoes throughout her head.

The dagger, however, broke through the surface of Amis. A small crater of force surrounded what was supposed to be the final blow. However, it seemed that in spite of accepting his defeat, the Kronan missed it entirely as he relaxed limply.

Neither one was hit, and the rest of the audience whose voices were beginning to circle the field grew rampant. 

_‘End it!’_ One of them cried, ‘ _Rip his head off_!’ said another—an unseemly demand.

Y/N didn’t dare move from her spot. The pace of her breathing finally fell upon her lungs like gravity, catching up to her as if it had been the most excruciating experience in the world. The burning pit in her core was extinguished too quickly, like a blown candle. 

After such a long time, Y/N was finally full of her appetites. 

The Kronan did not budge either, staring up at Y/N with wide, bewildered eyes with a mouth slanted open, no breath of relief exchanged in that waking moment. 

“What are you doing?” A weak groan drilled into her head, “ _Finish it_.”

His final gaze was piercing, watching as Y/N’s flushed skin glistened, the way her bones creaked with the leather as she swayed slightly with the wind. No whisper of treacherous lies would turn him from realizing that this; this poor girl, didn’t want to fight.

She didn’t have to kill him to win, her saying became a mantra; _a promise._

Shadow fell over her eyes like a mist, giving her a moment, some time before she revealed her smiling face to the crowd—this facade of hers—was finally _real_.

“It’s over,” Y/N affirmed breathlessly, gripping tight on the immobilized stone bicep.

_“Come on, up you go. Push your legs..there we are…”_

Y/N paid no attention to what was happening around her anymore; paying her sole focus on the Kronan who didn’t even care that he lost. Instead, he felt thankful that Y/N had helped drag him off the field, limping, carrying even herself as she ignored the suspenseful murmurs he heard. 

_“The battle is won.”_ Y/N declared aloud, helping her opponent, _“This one will lead you.”_

The echoes of the audience turned into a sour silence, their eyes on the grounds-master who took his unwanted place on the end of the field, frowning as he was given the burden of guiding the defeated contender to the infirmary. 

Now, Y/N was the only thing alive on the battleground, wiping the blood from her chin.

Unknown anticipation nearly overwhelmed her. For a moment in the total quiet, Y/N felt like she had no power. Indeed, she didn’t have any by birthright, but was raised to be. Her judgement was taken like reigns on a beast, unchallenged and rank. Y/N was more than capable of reassuring the people; what was supposed to be her people.

As the Amisian finally turned her head with a smile, everyone took a breath.

“Get her.” Gardenia uttered with a low breath, sending an Atralis squadron down to retrieve the reckless princess who gave an albeit, half but genuine courtesy. The remaining six children and their own father did not dare to interfere with the small army sent for Y/N, led by a woman’s wrath. But Krow was neither a child nor of noble birth; his steps were swift, already catching pace with those in white and golden-plated armor, determined to get to Y/N first.

_“I am impressed,”_ Y/N began, smug and kempt, _“Those who stood here, who spilled blood in their honor have done well. I assure you when I say, I am filled with their humor and their vigilance. I am sure that they will have a promising future, here in this realm.”_

A light round of applause reached Y/N, akin to thunder rolling in a distant cloud. It was certain they were anxious—after a battle like that, they could not fathom the idea of who could be the winner; the new commander of the Atralis army.

_“I must digress,”_ Y/N continued, her smile faltering a little, _“Those of you who think I do not keep faith in these practices—this custom—can listen well. I’m only here to have fun, not to jest. Amis and all its glory is my home and I will treat them as such. I hope you all will, too. However, should this be a real battle, against me, you w—”_

“ _—Princess Y/N_ ,” An unknown voice bellowed from across the field, having Y/N take a slow breath as she turned, “Your presence is needed. We can take it from here.”

A second-in-command knight and her siblings’ meister, _Mavenpoor_ , was looking down at her, pointing in the direction of the opening of the first parlor. From behind them, another wave of armor-clad soldiers stood in her wake, appearing to her as if she was being threatened. She merely laughed airily at the thought. 

Turning her head, Y/N could already see her mother standing near the entrance, looking as if her untrue daughter had just committed treason, appearing more disappointed than she already was. Even more thrilling, she could see Krow, stopping in his tracks and out of breath. He had come a bit too late to save her from embarrassment. 

Without another word, Y/N carried herself back to her family.

With each step towards her mother, Y/N could feel the intensity of her glare burn hotter. Counting that with the simmering gazes of the audience at her back, there was not a soul on the planet who didn’t know that Y/N had done something reckless. However, the last laugh bubbled from her lips with an unseemly snort. 

She didn’t care. She had gotten what she wanted a long time ago. Her unprecedented words to the people was just adding more to her satisfaction, even if it was cut short. Y/N’s happiness beaconed, earning a somewhat crooked smile from Krow. 

_Reckless she is_ , Krow thought with a sigh, _but honest, at least._

“ _Mother_ ,” The small greeting was enough to have the woman stiffen. Her head was kept forward, but her eyes glowed and stung with hate. Spiteful words began crawling up her throat, like a parasite, some deranged monster inside of her just aching to let out.

However, Gardenia decided, for some reason, to let Y/N go. Her thirst was slaked, and no such appalling acts of indecency would meet her eyes for another few months. 

Even if she knew that the cycle would start again, Gardenia would be pleased with the quiet, but never with the peace.

Y/N was first met with fading darkness before she saw Krow. Her eyes twinkled in delight as she saw him, gleaming with pride she was too tired to muster for herself. Seeking comfort, the air in Krow’s chest was punched out of him as Y/N melded her temple with his torso. She basked warmly in his essence, cherishing the tenderness of his touch as he welcomed her with caution, like ancient flowers blooming in an untouched spring. He carefully circled his arms together around her upper torso, resting his chin on her head, shivering as his cooler skin grazed her heated forehead.

_She’s too warm_ , Krow grimly notes as he carefully cards his fingers through her hair, _and her skin is too red_.

At first, Krow’s jaw clenched terribly as he felt her nose brush against the end of his chin; heated and wet, like fresh humidity. His attempt in his own reverse apricity wasn’t enough, he knew that much. There wasn’t enough cold to fight back the flame. He was only a melting snowflake against magma—not enough for her, but still pushing through. But the feeling of a smile pressing against his neck, ridden with gooseflesh, emitted a feeling that was enough for him to reach at the ends of his fingertips.

“Didn’t think that would take so much out of you.” Krow teased lightly, pulling his head away to look at her, nearly laughing as he saw her pouting face.

“It’s been a long time,” She defends meekly, “My jaw hurts and that wretched woman kept my head from the field. I thought I would be smarter, but I—”

“— _Alright, alright_. I understand,” Krow soothes gently, reaching slowly to cradle the sides of her face, “Still, you should’ve been hit in the head. It would’ve done much more good than your family and I kept you away from things like this.”

Y/N hissed as Krow flicked her forehead, her arms pulling away to soothe the stinging spot.

“No blow to the head would make me sit on the side and wait. It was fun and you expected me to go through worse.”

Krow’s smile nearly ached his cheeks, his form capturing hers again, melding together gratitude and affection. 

She was glad he was there. If it hadn’t been for Krow’s knick for protective nagging, Y/N would have forgotten to spare her beaten contender. The victory meant nothing to her. Her chest collapsed merely for the fact that she felt alive. And now, calm and tender in a loved one’s arms.

He finally laughed, his amusement shining at the shift in her expression.

“Well then, in that case, I apologize for spoiling your victory. _Am I ruining the moment?”_

“ _Yes_ ,” Y/N said with a laugh, “ _Yes, you are_.”

  


『✭』

  


“How does it feel?” A voice asked carefully, in between switching their glance to the man on his left and the woman on his right.

They stood atop pedestals with no particular value, made of titanium alloy, a material that was shared generously here—smooth and pristine. It was a terrible contrast against the machinery hooked with thousands of other wires—black and coiling like a nest of vipers, tangled in the right bits and knotted in the wrong ones. 

The woman just wanted to sleep in for one night, _was that too much to ask?_

“Heavier than usual,” The blonde man sighed as he curled his arm, “But sturdy. It’s good.”

There was a sound that lingered in the electrical air, as if the essence of numerical data gave a sour waft up the engineer’s nose. The way his face scrunched in an appalling matter made the blonde beside him, the base of his forearm tight with a leather-strap and a thin, beeping circular shield, pull a frown across his mouth.

He was never used to things like this; neither of them were. 

When Fury asked them personally to take control of the matter, they weren’t too happy of being called into action so quickly. The world was healing, they had agreed, and they were, too. They didn’t need the idea of aliens disturbing their sleep again—especially Tony Stark. The fact that this was a rescue mission in alien territory, made the process a little slower than usual.

“Something the matter?” 

“Well, Steve, the calibration of the ion particles in this shield are kind of a new process for me. Turns out my dad didn’t really have any notes for the metal back in 44’. Hard to believe he didn’t have any clearance for that.”

_Tony Stark_ was not at all a spiteful man. He loved his father… _somewhere inside him_. To continue his work never felt like a burden. In his honesty, he didn’t have time to consider if what he was doing was for himself or for his dad; maintaining the peace. 

However, it was nice to have realized that after many years of recklessness; he was doing this for the world.

On the other side of the coin, _Steve Rogers_ wasn’t at all understanding what he was saying. He could clearly see Howard in Tony, the Starks were stark in contrast, as Natasha liked to put it. As many would. Steve wasn’t used to the idea of technology quite yet and he certainly wasn’t enthused of being Tony’s guinea pig for their upcoming mission.

“And that means…” Steve drawled with pointed brows, not quite connecting the dots.

“It means that _Badassium_ isn’t quite up to par with _Vibranium_.” The woman answered, her auburn hair being pulled and tied into a loose braid.

“‘ _Badassium_ ’?” Steve echoed, his face contorting before flickering his eyes to Tony who shrugged innocently.

“S’ what I called the element in my arc reactor before I had it removed. Took it up with the government but they said I couldn’t call it that because of legal reasons. A bunch of bullshit.”

“One of the world’s greatest minds.” The woman laughed unkindly, shaking her head.

“Don’t forget an Avenger, Natasha. You know, kind of the main guy who saved the world?”

_Natasha Romanoff_ never intended for her work to go this far. Truth be told, she thought she wouldn’t live past her 20’s, after all the things she had done. She betted on an accident based on her own stupidity, but now she put more faith in theirs. She killed many people, innocents and sinners, men and women. Not all of them were intentional, Natasha had realized that over the course of last year—after New York, _one hell of a work day_. 

But, she managed.

To finally realize Natasha was part of a bigger universe, to have finally found her purpose with the Avengers; Natasha could safely say she was happy.

“Don’t worry,” Natasha soothed, stepping off of the platform as she stretched out her throbbing arms, “Fury can send in a unit that’ll take care of things here while we’re gone. Might be able to save you; you’re slow today.”

“Are you naturally this keen or were you just admiring me throughout the whole day?” Tony asked with pointed brows, a trying smile hidden behind the heel of his palm as his elbow pressed against his counter—piled with notes, tools, and analysis copies from _JARVIS_. 

There was no restfulness in Tony’s eyes, sagging with dark circles with the connected temples pulsing from the violet veins. Not only was Tony visibly shaken, but his movements were quite literally so. His hands clamored together, trembling whenever he moved each finger over the other. 

Tony would never admit it; but he could still feel the nuke in his iron hands.

“I’m expressing my concern,” Natasha contended softly, pressing a hand on his shoulder, “Heard from Pepper that you hadn’t been filing in your reports for the past month and instead decided to watch _SNL_ on _NBC_ , drunk _and_ crying. Not exactly a good coping mechanism.”

“Who says I’m coping?” Tony asked, jokingly offended. Natasha scoffed openly, lips dragging out the crooked smile.

“We all are.” Steve intervened, handing a bottle of water to Tony, who looked as if he heard an insult that actually stung. Ripping the cap off, Tony took a swig with ragged movements, every jitter of his bones shaking under his skin.

“Now, I’m not saying this to mock you, but I’m saying this as a friend…”

Tony watched as Steve’s expressions faltered.

“You’re scared of Fury’s newest mission, aren’t you?” 

Despite Steve Rogers having slept for nearly seventy years and still managing the modern era, his care and ambition for justice were equals. Not everyone could see a gentle spirit within this patriotic powerhouse, but it didn’t matter to him. His gentleness could fix people, he could help Tony who was certainly suffering from PTSD, most likely Criterion A. Steve knew many people with the same problems, but he couldn’t exactly handle it normally.

Tony wasn’t like them and he didn’t seem to want to stop.

The pressure in Tony’s clenched jaws switched sides occasionally. He tried his best to look his friends in the eye, but it broke in fragmented seconds. Life was not kind as images throbbed his already tired mind, disgracing him as he allowed himself to bask in that tense silence.

“Where would you get that kind of idea?” Tony asked quietly.

“Ever since you stopped filing your reports.” Steve responded, solemn and still.

“You don’t need to do… _all this_. You don’t have to be afraid to tell us."

“Well, as a matter of fact, Cap; I don’t. I’m not. _I’m fine_. I’m _perfectly_ fine. And everything is gonna be _perfectly fine,_ ” Tony spoke slowly through his teeth, _“Everything should be perfectly fine.”_

Steve’s demeanor shifted in Tony’s change of attitude. Any semblance of assurance was lost on him now. As his voice seemed to rise from hoarse whispering and mumbling, the hold on Tony’s shoulder suddenly grew tighter from Natasha. She tried speaking with Steve, watching as the water he had just swallowed turn into sheer sweat.

“It’s okay, it’s totally fine. It’s fine. Fury already briefed me on the safety measures _and_ the precautions that the ops are going to pull me out of if this mission goes _haywire_ —“

“— _Tony, just_ —“ Natasha had tried in a louder voice, but Tony kept fumbling with quieter and sharper words. He was trying to convince them—he was trying to convince himself.

“—And my suit is armed with a _tracking chip_ that can keep us on the grid for _over twenty-four hour_ s—“

“— _Tony. Take it easy, relax_ —“

“—There’s nothing that I should be scared for. _Right?_ Is that what you’re saying? I mean, it didn’t only take me a whole month for my _great brain_ to process the notice while chugging my twelfth bourbon on the rocks but _here I am_ ; ready to go to some planet, _infested_ with beings who have such a _bigger purpose_ than ours, _right?_ That’s what we were told while we were scared shitless. _Right?”_

Natasha had stood up from her seat, her hand slipping from Tony’s tense shoulder. She could feel a heat radiate off his skin, that of which was left bare and vulnerable to the cold, filtered room. He was glowering now, ragged hot breaths leaving in sections as he covered his mouth with his hand, his awkward position prompted Steve to finally move. 

The super-soldier had nearly slipped backwards as Tony stood up with a jolt, tossing away his protective aviators from the top of his head, a hand running through his hair.

“ _I just…_ ” Tony began, but couldn’t seem to finish, “ _I need a…_ ”

“ ** _Mister Stark,_** ” The voice of _JARVIS_ rutted the walls, disturbing the tension that melted into some hopeful relief. The A.I. system had been listening in on them the whole time, they had forgotten. _JARVIS_ only spoke now because of Tony’s words of command; ‘ _I need…’._

Natasha and Steve let Tony confide with his machines, speaking promptly.

“ _JARVIS_ , tell Pep I won’t…I won’t be able to make the reservation at _Dunes_. Schedule at _Le Bernardin_ , tell them Tony Stark is coming. That’ll—That’ll get me off the waiting list.”

A beat of silence weighed down again before JARVIS’s voice echoed,

**_“Your arrival is expected within thirty minutes, sir.”_ **

Tony had left without another word after that, not sparing the extra second to catch a glimpse of his friends who stood there, still. Neither of them moved in that awkward atmosphere, a bit shaken with the force of Tony’s heavy footsteps leaving the room. Natasha only moved to bat an eyelash once he was gone, and Steve turned his head to look at the shield—equipped with a temporary detonator for their mission. It was only to be used as a last resort, which Tony was keen on.

“I feel like Fury is just doing this as payback.”

A bit of a dark jest, but Steve was thankful to have been ripped from the silence. He threw a crooked brow at Natasha who folded her arms, nodding nonchalantly.

“We’ve been through a lot, just a guess.”

“Whatever it is, I don’t want to know.”

  


『✭』

  


Festivities held in her honor—Y/N hadn’t heard such a thing for a while now. Maybe since the last hundred years had been empty of fruitful victories, did she feel deprived from enthusiasm. She should feel grateful, she was grateful. But there was no denying, the feeling deep inside her chest, told her it was a little wrong. Her genuineness would not last the entire night, not with these people—aliens and Amisians crowding around her with bellies full of aged liquor, sweetmeats, and divine fruits.

The celebration was held world-wide for the kingdom of Amis. The dining hall had been filled with shapes, colors, and forms that never caught interest within Y/N’s peripheral. Her eye was kept inside the bottom of her chalice, a small golden pool resting on the bridge of her nose. She hadn’t expected so many people tonight—especially those who would normally decline snobbishly from the invitation. However, as music echoed and rumbled up the curving walls, no one had bothered to complain about their companies who became dancing partners.

Partially, Y/N blamed herself; if she didn’t make such a reckless scene, people wouldn’t be showing up like this—curious, asking her questions, and trying to maintain small-talk. She had decided to settle behind a seclusive pillar, only a small distance away from a balcony.

The _Terius_ mountains brought forth tribes and villages, the _Elysium_ skies had their battalions and empires, the _Norrath_ sea brought the exotic and outcasts, and the _Irie_ deserts marched with rogues and mercenaries—heading for the city of stars; _Echealion_.

Y/N was forced into formal wear, not quite an elegant dress, but neither metallic armor. The only thing protective of her bare skin would have been in her hands. The six rings wrapped on some of her fingers are constrictive as it rubbed against skin-tight leather gloves. It was a formality with the Skaraeith children—those who conjured unparalleled forces within those hands should do well to keep them concealed for safety at a simple feast. 

Y/N straightened mouth turned into a frown. She didn’t like that thought one bit; _how well had she been raised into being the way she was now? Before she had any siblings or a step-mother who controlled her life?_

Instead of dwelling on the decades of changes, Y/N drank in the sight of Krow standing by his lonesome. She never would have guessed that Krow would be alone that night, but here he was, perched against the railing of one of the balconies that overlooked the palace gardens. He must’ve given up trying to find her. 

The moonlight leaned against his face so gently, Y/N had seen the highlights of his cheekbones, practically a glowing figure. He had always looked ethereal, but in that moment, he appeared as a being of omnipotence, ever-lasting, and otherworldly. Within Krow’s cold hands, he nursed a cup of warmer ale to his abdomen, where the movement of his breathing was steadily slow. The confinement of his broader figure and skin was covered with a trademark dark green and gray, black accents of his leather and hound fur that had tickled the underside of his nose. 

His eyes were empty of excitement, much like Y/N’s own. But he seemed to be staring at something; something that was shiny enough to glisten against his darker, evergreen eyes.

Y/N turned to his line of view, seeing in the distance what made her heart unconsciously _pound_.

Her father and Gardenia share a kiss.

Y/N doesn’t know how or why; but the heartstring she feels is ripped from her other parts of flesh. She can’t hear the music anymore, even the flutist that constantly rang in her ears like a morning bell had faded into nothing. Everything within her senses fades out, her emotions riling while nulled in the sunken part of her chest.

Something vile crawls up from her throat and clamps down onto her teeth and lips; words that she had always dreamt of spitting out, but instead pushed them together in silence.

_Mother_ , Y/N unconsciously thinks, _where is her mother to save herself from this?_

Something small, but something most definitely present reminds her bitterly that she had no mother. No maternal blood was coming to save her from this half-family, no matter how many moons and suns pass by, sitting in the void of space just to see a glimpse of her face.

_Y/N had no mother._

_“Getting back into the adolescent phase?”_

Y/N raises her elbow from behind, jutting to whoever stupid enough to come up from behind and scare her. The balled fist that deflects her pointed joint halts her from movement, straining her further as the hand slips and is wrapped around her wrist, pulling her entire arm back. 

The instinctual alarms in Y/N are ringing, screaming—someone most definitely capable was looking for a fight. _But out here? In public where they could be outnumbered? Or were there other opposing forces with this pursuer?_ After such an eventful night, Y/N wondered for the first time if she had anything left in her.

The strength in her legs is lost of purpose, as she had intended to use her left leg to kick them from behind like a wild buck, but her assailant had crossed their own leg against hers—leaving Y/N completely restrained from the waist down. With one, final attempt to throw them off, the Amisian fuels her other arm with a glowing, unnatural strength, white luminosity filling her palms and gaining her assailant’s alert as they shouted urgently;

_“Whoa! Y/N! Relax, it’s just me!”_

Y/N was close to blocking out the voice much like the other noise, but the familiarity in her ears, bringing such a fondness that startles her heart, it makes her head drop gently against her supposed attacker’s chest—his breathing going steady once again.

Her own breath is filched as she peers upside-down at Krow’s face, gaping with the hint of awe. He must’ve been so proud of himself that he was able to scare her, but that wasn’t at all what he wanted. Their breaths intermingled too long as the pressed hair against her scalp and Krow’s hard chest fell over her eyes, an amused laugh finally filling the shared air.

Y/N blinked owlishly, feeling Krow’s vice grip and pressure deteriorate slowly, using his other arm to encircle around her stomach, keeping her close. An unexpected form of apology, but Y/N had accepted nonetheless, her heart pounding from the settling adrenaline. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Krow muttered, his low voice lingering with guilt.

“S’ fine,” Y/N said quickly, feeling her muscles melt against Krow, her body swaying with his to the annoying flutist’s song, “But you called me a teenager. You should be _beheaded_ for that.”

Krow laughs earnestly, hearing her childish tone and seeing the puffiness curve along the lines of her cheeks; she was pouting.

“Should I? I’ll have to ask your parents for another display of affection before my execution, then. It would bring me peace to see your disgusted face if it’s the last thing I’ll ever see.”

“A smile wouldn’t be better?”

Krow nestled his chin atop Y/N’s head, eyes rolling in thought, the lights of his self-made chandeliers twinkling from the ceiling. He remembered the day he was requested to make them, again picturing the proud and amazed smile across Y/N’s face as she saw them. He remembered her twirls under those lights—his lights. Something about that made him gleam.

“You’re right. A smile would definitely be better,” Krow confessed, his hand careful to hold the edges of Y/N’s wrists as they continued to dance slowly with the melody, “But why were you disgusted in the first place? Why when you saw them?”

Almost too quickly, the spite and vile words wrapped around her tongue come shooting out, her voice luckily, low enough for him to hear. Instead of being ashamed of her honesty, she encouraged it as she turned her head to catch a glimpse of Krow’s meek expression.

“You know why already,” Y/N says, a bit dejectedly, “The same shameful reason why I can’t be part of this family; the person in question…who’s _missing_ from my picture.”

The constellations of his neurons were like gunfire, electric memories that were at least an eon years old had consumed every last part of his mind again in vivid colors. Krow didn’t take too kindly to that idea of Y/N dwelling and feeling guilty about something that wasn’t her fault, but Krow wasn’t exactly obligated to say anything sympathetic.

Krow didn’t and never dared to speak such a name, a name he didn’t even know, but the title that he, too, thought bitterly.

“You’ll find her one day.”

Y/N knows to trust him. But, for some reason, just _can’t._


	4. Family Issues「4」

## 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐃𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐒𝐲𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐲, 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐃𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐌𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐲

The eventful night finally passes with the last feast and ushers a new dawn. The sunrise is a sacred, daily phenomenon. The worlds were kind to grace Amis with a golden light shining over their homes and the grandeur of the Skaraeith palace. Light reached deep ends of the mountains and valleys, where lands nearly forgotten are remembered as places of beauty; sanctuaries for the people who remained in the Echealion citadel. 

True-blooded Amisians learnt from birth that the old gods of their realm prospered with great power beneath a sunrise; a symbol of hope and promise. But their supposed descendants; the Skaraeith dynasty, basked in the company of their _half-sister_ instead, who had just come back into the palace after visiting her previous opponent, a Kronan called _Golgotha_ , at the infirmary. 

Y/N nearly fell over as soon as she opened the door from her quarters, attacked by a weight that wrapped their arms around her neck, bubbly laughter filling her ears. The eastern wing of the palace was supposed to be unoccupied at a time like this, it was too early in the morning. Yet, even despite the ungodly hour of dawn, the Skaraeith children had snuck their way to meet her, desperate for her welcome.

“You’re late!” Wisp exclaimed, his arms sliding from her neck, his toes just barely touching the floor, letting Y/N gently clasp her palms under his raised shoulders..

“It’s barely morning,” Y/N reminded, laughingly, “It’s _too early_.”

From behind Wisp’s swept and kempt hair, she could see her other siblings; Morok, Cervantes, Yven, Florentine, and Demetrius. There was nearly a missable reminder as Y/N looked at them all, one that made her heart twinge. They kept their decency but their beaming smiles were not at all modest. 

“We tried making him wait a bit longer,” Morok lightly noted, “But he couldn’t help himself. Even promised him extra fruitcakes after dinner if he was patient. _But_...”

“They’ll give it to me, anyway.” Wisp giggled, earning a slow hand ruffling through his hair.

Today was a special occasion; _family-bonding_ , one could say. They would venture behind the Echealion palace to the White Hollow woods, a place where even the light of the first sunrise would not reach, to play and train there. 

The grounds were shrouded in a light mist, as cold as the air _Death_ would breathe. White trees with red marks grew pale leaves with veined lobes and jagged edges, where their dew often formed pure rivers. Something about it always remained near mystical, but it was purely natural. Noting the fauna, little white wyverns would often fly over the grey canopies, singing a mourning song and small, black, and lavender felines called _Lorns_ would collect small bones. But no one knows from where.

For the Skaraeith family, those who did indeed share the spirit and blood of ruined gods, had made that place of danger their second-home. 

On this particular day, Y/N was, for some reason, unenthused. Unlike before, she would have loved to spend the day with her siblings, helping them train and polishing their skills. However, Y/N merely assumed it was the fatigue from fighting the previous night, weary of the thought if she wasn’t as promising as she once was.

“I was just going to the Vault. I’ve picked up some new daggers, most valuable of the reservoir, I think.” Y/N began as she stepped away from the towering doors, beginning down the hall where numerous vases of wildflowers and ancient runes decorated the rounded corridors. 

The pale gold of sunrise whisked away into a baby blue, bright eyes turned to examine the weather, where Y/N was certain of a later rain. Even she, _master of storms_ , could smell a faint drop from miles away; and she assumed it would be a heavy one. 

“Where did they come from?” Morok questioned, following with the rest of his siblings down the halls to the spiraling stairs where it led to the palace labyrinth; _The Vault_ —the home of Y/N’s prized weapons over the years.

“A battle from ancient times, a place that’s left in memory,” Y/N affirmed, her body melding with the surrounding darkness, the entrance of the tunnels slowly losing rays of the sunrise—only torches, wooden and not as bright, kissed the family’s cheeks with its heat.

The Vault was directly under Y/N’s quarters, she didn’t think it would be pleasing to her mother if she had a room with the rest of her siblings on the northern wing. Aside from saving herself from her step-mother’s wrath, Y/N wouldn’t dare to admit that she didn’t want to see Gardenia’s face at the start of her days.

The labyrinth under the eastern wing was rarely used yet openly vulnerable. Only those closest to Y/N could dwell within these dark halls, which was mainly Krow and Wisp. The youngest prince would plead constantly throughout certain days and ask to watch her train. Krow would sit beside her as she polished blades, enjoying each other’s company. Her father remarked that it would be unwise to keep something so precious in the light where it could be easily taken, but Y/N disregarded his thoughts—certain she was attentive enough.

Y/N took hold of the iron gate at the end of the cove and threw it open, inhaling the dry smell of steel and wood alike. Many minerals from planet cores and many trees from old woods were kept here—hung with care and gleaming under the skylight, made by a single hole carved into the stone. Just beneath it was a waterfall, where blue pools reflected in waves against the siblings’ wide eyes. 

They were not used to being down here, aside from Wisp. Although this labyrinth was a haven to Y/N, a place where she paid homage to almost routinely, they always wondered how much time she truly spent down here than with them. They always knew of their mother’s resentment because of it, but saying it was an excuse was bothersome; _worrying_.

“Up there,” Y/N pointed without looking, her hands shuffling various items in a stray crate, “The highest shelf, a black box with a golden crest. It’s labeled, ‘ _Ninyuen_ ’.”

Wisp is eager to take the box, already spotting it tucked away neatly with similar others. However, before he manages to take a step forward, Morok is already there. His longer arms easily carry it from the shelf, carefully pulling back the cover to reveal a blood-red cloth. 

“Someone made an effort,” Cervantes commented, taking the box from his brother’s hands and pulled over the cloth, where ancient runes etched into gold blades revealed to the awe-stricken siblings. 

“It was given to me by the high guardian of _Vestral_ ,” Y/N recalled, laughing,“I pulled the water from his lungs after he nearly drowned in the murky rivers during the expedition in _Roccaro_. Gods, that man nearly sworn an _eternity_ of servitude. I convinced him of just a small…parting gift.”

Wisp stood on his toes, peeking over Cervantes’ shoulder as he examined the golden blades, noticing the intricate detail fleetingly. His interest peaked as he saw the molded craft of the dagger’s handles, an ancient, avian beast—beaked with sharp, feathery scales and breathed streaks of gold lightning. It didn’t look like a wyvern nor any dragon he had ever seen.

“It’s a gryphon.” Wisp realized aloud.

“That’s right,” Y/N hummed, nodding her head slowly, “They’re proud beasts that are rarely seen. They’re not as fearsome as dragons, but they are capable of terrible storms.”

“I’d love to see one someday.” Wisp chuckled lightly, bringing his head up to see his sister, who had become strangely quiet. The fondness in her smile never left, even as she traced the tips of her fingers along the edge of the blade.

“I’d love to see one, too,” She confessed softly, eyes flickering, “It makes you wonder what else is out there; what other glorious beings are outside our realm.”

Wisp’s mouth slanted in a frown, his gaze turned downward, reminiscing. The confusion didn’t come as fast as the snark crawling up his throat, nearly forming into words before they came spewing out informalities to his sister. The young prince had heard stories of her ever since he was born; her crusades, tales of leading and assisting countless revolutions. Y/N was _The Amisian_ who tore down eons of dynasties, but still managed to maintain her own.

_But, you’ve already been everywhere, don’t be selfish_ , he wanted to say, but he kept those words on the tip of his tongue. With a slow, collective breath, his eyes flickered elsewhere, anywhere but to her.

“You’ve been to other planets before. You’ve practically seen everything. I thought you had stepped down because of that? That you retired because it was too much?”

Y/N’s smile parted to release a somber laugh.

“If that were true, I wouldn’t have acted the way I did last night. I would’ve been with you all; watching. It’s not the retirement part that tortures me. I just don’t see the point with dwelling in _boredom_.” 

Something coiled in her stomach, subtle and cold. Her hand unconsciously was drawn to it, her palm flattening on her abdomen protected by lightly-padded armor. Although her hand felt the compressed body heat, Y/N could feel the chill linger on the palm of her hand. 

“You’re insufferable sometimes, sister,” Morok affirmed, who became a small part of Wisp’s saving grace in the moment, “Retirement isn’t a cage. Staying here would do you much better than being out there.”

Finally, Y/N gave one last smile, taking hold one of the daggers carefully. Gripping the tip of the blade with two, strong fingers, Y/N shuts an eye. Her arm slowly drew forward, her senses ultimately focused on a stone pillar on the other side of the labyrinth. 

The rock was already impaled with other bladed weapons, rusted and crooked at the hilt; unworthy to Y/N, gifts that were meant as insults from her past enemies. She had gotten back at all of them over time, but she never did find the time to take care of their messes. 

Through slow and steady breaths, Y/N uttered lowly,

_“The way I see it; staying here wouldn’t be a peaceful death.”_

Y/N’s arm bulleted forward, her form as precise as an arrow itself. The breath she released from her nose was sharp and hot, nearly forming a mistral cloud over her lips as she turned to bare her teeth. 

But, mid-way, Y/N threw her body in the other direction, where the dagger shot from her hands. The young dynasty let out a near-shriek, breathy gasps in an unbalanced rhythm. Their bewildered eyes flickered to see just who their sister decided to attack so recklessly.

When they discovered their father; unharmed and holding the dagger in his hand already, the siblings near wept for joy.

“ _Father_ ,” Y/N greeted, unfazed, “Good morning.”

“Y/N,” Yven heaved with a small whine, shaking her head as the other two of the triplets shared similar gaping expressions, “Gods, don’t ever do that again! You almost made us think you were going to _kill_ father!”

Amwren Ramses himself, however, lets out a hearty laugh. The volume nearly shook the stone walls of the labyrinth, almost shaking the marble of the palace as well. His hands are taken from the golden clasps of his belt before sliding over Y/N’s back, giving it a few pats.

“Your sister couldn’t kill me if I had my hands tied behind my back and blindfolded. Although her wit is more than enough to be the end of me.”

“Father,” Y/N whined teasingly, shaking her head, “You jest too honestly. I’m only trying to lighten the mood. Certainly after, ahem, Gardenia’s lecture that I had to sit through.”

Ramses’s expression softened, a hand drawing to comfort her head.

Wisp had moved from behind the others, jogging to his father to embrace him around his thicker legs, overlapped with a Lorn faux-fur coat. Snowblight was approaching soon, the winds were becoming more violent and colder. But nothing had feared the youngest prince with his father, who would traditionally take their lessons inside, courtesy of the meister. 

“We had to hear about it after the feast. We would have strung our ears along the curtains just to get a break from her.”

Wisp felt a short and sharp pain at the back of his head, wincing as his said older sister flicked him scoldingly.

“You speak too boldly. But he’s not wrong. I wasn’t able to tolerate my silence for much longer.”

Ramses dismissed his eldest daughter’s rough tone, clasping another firm hand on Wisp’s shoulder.

“She only wants the best for you. Keeping you safe, making sure you’re aware of your responsibilities. It’s maternal instinct.”

“Yes, of course it’s _motherly_ to kick your child across the room and cause internal bleeding. She is certainly blessed with the gift of good parenting. A marvelous woman.”

Ramses’ brows threw upwards, a chastising laugh, breathy and empty of genuine intent had slipped through Y/N’s ears. She didn’t want to hear anything he had to say in her step-mother’s defense. Her ribs still ached and throbbed, an uncomfortable brittle sound whenever she hunched over still shook in her bones. Y/N was sure that Gardenia had been reminded of her healing properties, but had ignored it just to punish her so.

“You say I jest too honestly but yours are, too. Perhaps even too cruel.”

“I speak honestly, there’s a difference.” Y/N corrected lowly, removing herself from her father’s grip. 

There was a sadness in his eyes as he felt his daughter slip away, but kept his mouth pressed from speaking scolding words. He knew incredibly well, but just couldn’t understand.

Ramses turned to his other children, who were collectively respectively away from their conversation, but had admired the metal fixtures and weaponry above their heads. The children preferred not to listen, not with their half-sister listening so closely, astray and different.

“A minute, children. If you don’t mind.”

A hum in unison was the signal for Ramses and his daughter to exit the Vault, but not before Y/N veered her head with a stern, sharp glance.

“If you break something, I’ll break you.”

Her siblings took the warning urgently, nodding before shutting the large doors. There was nothing more relieving in that moment to see Wisp standing between the golden cracks, smiling wearily with a slow waving hand to bid them off. Y/N’s heart had warmed, singed fires smoldering against wet wood—it was futile, she knew, but it kept the orange glowing, at least.

Y/N joins her father, arm-in-arm as they begin journeying down the corridors. Wilderness just beneath them, breathing calmly as the winds of Amis whirls between the gold pillars and halls of gold, auburn, periwinkle, white, and black. Y/N was certain she wouldn’t grow tired of such a feeling, of what her home was capable of. Even within the confinements of these palace walls, the sun was ever-so present, left to bask in its warm glory.

“Amis looks lovely these days, doesn’t it? The gardens are turning lavender, blue, and white. Snowblight is upon us.”

“Yes, it looks very lovely,” Y/N replied with rolling eyes. 

_Snowblight, flowerblight, sunblight, moonblight,_ and _stormblight_ ; the five seasonal upbringings upon the planet. The lands would turn into their variations of color and prosperity, the people changing to bask. Harvests and songs, blooming flowers and hibernations repeating in an endless cycle. During those times, Y/N and her siblings would spend their days accordingly, happily. But after an eon, the seasons turned to nothing but a chore. 

“But I’ll bet this year’s snowblight isn’t as cold as Gardenia will be once she decides to dress for the occasion. Should I refuse, I’ll bet her strikes are as chilling as the ice.”

“Y/N, I thought we were past all this.”

The half-blooded Amisian throws her father a pointed look, halting for a moment from their leisurely stroll.

“You expected me to lay there and take the beating?”

“No, I—“ Ramses huffs, “—I expected you to be _filial_ with Gardenia first as you do with me.”

A snort disturbs Ramses, and a laugh shocks him. 

Despite the satisfaction of seeing her father dissolve into such a face, Y/N wiped away the forming, amused tears to gain her composure. Her heart rattled with such an informality that Y/N didn’t even bother to apologize to the only man she respected, let alone try to bow her head in shame. 

Y/N had expected this, far too keen on how her father’s nature truly shone. His desperation to have a loving wife, to have any wife, drove Y/N _sick_. 

“I will be filial when she decides to treat me as part of the family. She shouldn’t even get to choose, now should she?”

Ramses cleared his throat abruptly, turning to face his daughter with their arms no longer intertwined. He was beginning to think that this was a mistake—he should have disciplined her. But, at that same time, he couldn’t bring himself to admit that she was wrong; she wasn’t.

“It’s my request, Y/N,” Ramses sighed deeply, “I just want for all of us to be a loving family. Is that choice not anyone’s? Something that we can’t just _naturally_ abide by?”

Y/N’s face fell, eyes casting downward.

“I understand, Y/N,” Ramses soothes gently, “I understand if it’s difficult after you—“

“— **Don’t**.” Y/N snaps, pulling away from her father.

Ramses feels the air hug him as she lets go, arms lingering with the embrace before falling to his sides. He can’t feel the breath of the rain, the light mist as the rain around them poured heavily. They were unequals to Y/N’s tears that had begun to flow, bringing a sight that was even unfamiliar to her own father.

“ _The bond of family is as thick as the blood they spill_. And quite frankly, Gardenia spilt much of mine.” 

Y/N didn’t have the heart to look at her father now, finally lowering her feral eyes with some form of remorse that she couldn’t show him the night before. Ramses didn’t even know what to say, what to think. He had only ever had one love—and Y/N was just their product. To hold back the words of an apology, something he never had to do, was heart wrenching. His anger was instead blaming himself, wondering when the two of them ever split into nine.

The king of Amis had lifted his hand, movements flowing in opposites with the rain that had just begun to pour. Downward and upward, their contact reaches both ground and skin. Ramses had flattened his palm against his daughter’s face, thumb tracing small, significant circles where he had brushed her stray tear away. Two hands clutched his forearm, and a single step was all it took to keep them close, already forgiven.

“ _Starlight_ ,” He began softly, causing Y/N to roll her eyes, a name she wished had been forgotten in her childhood, “What we have—this family…it won’t last forever.”

Y/N’s eyes flickered to her father, glinting with a small fear.

“When the stars fade, when the sun sets, and the moon never rises, it won’t be long until fate takes us. We may never forgive or love each other before that happens, but we’ll be together. Until then, please, please continue to be Y/N… _my daughter._ ”

  


『✭』

  


Krow would never admit it, but he loathed the _White Hollow_ woods. The trees always looked like they were going to collapse. The thick, white wood would creak with an unearthly moan with the brittle rustling of heart-shaped leaves—very ominous. The winds that would blow through his dark hair would whisper dark secrets, thoughts of previous wars from fallen soldiers that died there a long time ago, where slaughter and maiming was prominent and manifested into words. 

_The Slaughter of Taevern_ , _The War of Unbound Fire_ , an early memory from his childhood. Krow remembers the crumbling, and roaring halls that were lit ablaze, flames from the Phoenix vessels were close to them—him and Y/N. They found each other after the collapse of the garrison and ran together, hand-in-hand, trying to find a way out of the palace and into the White Hollow where they would find their weak sanctuary. 

Krow could still remember how hot the room was as the two standing pillars collapsed in front of the exit doors, burning it from splinters to ash, and how hot it felt as he burned his palm when he gripped the hilt of his thin, trembling training-scythe. He was a frightful boy, he could never forget, but was braver than he had ever been as he swung fist to protect Y/N against a beast that leapt from the fire. 

A Taeverin soldier and his steed, a colossal bird whose feathers were millions of wisps of an eternal body of fire. Blood stained his mouth and heavier sword, where he had brung it down with a mighty haul. He didn’t even think twice about striking a child, whereas Krow was terrified of fighting an adult. The other children weren’t as merciless, as strong. But protecting Y/N, who had stayed behind him, was their last, strongest revolt.

Krow blinked away the memory.

The hall he once stood in, fighting for his life, was in front of him. He didn’t dare to step inside, as a display of courtesy. He received an invitation from one of the palace’s handmaidens, Olette, to visit the palace at daybreak and join Y/N and her siblings on their outing. Naturally, Krow accepted, but didn’t venture forward, not at his last step.

Krow was neither a gentleman nor a trained soldier, but a friend whose loyalty would never be doubted. But, Krow was beginning to doubt Y/N’s punctuality as she didn’t step from her quarters across the rebuilt, nostalgic hall. 

_“Good morning.”_

Krow never expected to be fully alert so early, but there he was; head veered with his knees buckling, trained eyes faintly glowing where the innards of his palms began to blossom into power. The resonance of the opposing person’s laugh, who he shouldn’t have been so defensive of, had rumbled the cursed halls.

Finding out who it was scared him more than their sudden greeting.

“My Queen,” Krow coughed quickly with a stiff bow, “A-a pleasure to see you.”

Krow shoved his hands behind his back where his power shirked back, fearfully. Back into a scared, frightful boy he always was, but his manners was undeniably in the right place. Gardenia looked at the boy with no interest in his formalities, but the light of amusement in her eyes gleamed as he rushed to recollect himself after such an offending display. She would never dare harm nor imprison the boy, but mercilessly chastise him. 

“If you’re looking for Y/N, she’s strolling the eastern wing with my blundering oaf of a husband. Not here. Near the Vault.”

Krow didn’t let the clicking breath between his teeth be heard by Gardenia’s ears. He wasn’t particularly fond of the woman, but he couldn’t bring himself to act sly with her. Gardenia was known for her fearsome reputation, known for stringing up enemies by their heads off bridges of old and forgotten lands, but never once made the effort of stepping foot into the battlefield. Her grip with a blade, made by her own light, was not unfamiliar. Quick with wit, Gardenia is a strikingly powerful woman, but never loved.

“Thank you, I’ll excuse myself—“

Krow crookedly bows half-way before stopping as he hears Gardenia again.

“—You must be quite interesting to have infatuated my step-daughter. How is it that you can run so quickly to her without even the slightest shred of diffidence?”

The implied rises slowly, breathing stiffly as he begins to recount his majesty’s words. He doesn’t dare question if she spoke wrongly, but he begins to question her implications.

_“Infatuated?”_ Krow echoes, his features scrunching tightly as he thinks the word repeatedly in his head.

“Yes, _infatuated_ ,” Gardenia repeats, enthused this time, “I’ve never met anyone who has been so well with her. I’ve met many possible suitors for my stern daughter, but none would ever follow through. It was as if her teeth would rip off any hand that would hold a ring.”

Krow raises his brows, his lips pushed together to refrain from questioning the lamenting of other suitors.

“But what makes you so special?”

Krow turns his eyes to her, where Gardenia folds her hands together, bathed in a gentle light. He feels defensive all of a sudden, being shrouded in the power of royalty, he feels he should flee but that never would be acceptable.

He was certain he wouldn’t get very far. 

“Like all Amisians, they are born with the same unnatural power. I am not ashamed to admit that I wasn’t born from a higher bloodline, not like the king or his children who can control elements…but my power is _special_. No one had ever seen a pure, white light before.”

Gardenia opens her palm, curling her fingers where a ray of light shines to the ceiling. The hollow beam of white is bright, as she says, but Krow isn’t convinced of its purity.

“I’ve been trained how to use it properly, like an etiquette lesson. And although Amisians are born with their power, it is nearly impossible to control it without years of training. But your power. Yours is green, isn’t it? _As emerald as the trees at the beginning of flowerblight_ , as Y/N describes. And she’s correct. But it’s also strange.”

Gardenia begins to step towards Krow, who unconsciously tenses at the sound of her heels clicking against the marble floors. Completely stunned and unstirred, Krow feels a cold wind blowing from behind him, north of the planet, drawing his essence closer to Gardenia who stalks him like a predator.

“Able to create… _crystals_. Isn’t that right? Crystals that hold pockets of your power for redistribution. Now, after all my years of meeting countless Amisians, hybrids, and half-bloods, I must admit; that’s interesting. It’s strange. Maybe that’s why she likes you so much—because you can do something she can’t. Or maybe it’s because you’re too similar. Like how you dared to remark on me and keep me from knowing Y/N’s whereabouts last night.”

Krow finally feels his voice, struggling to crawl from his throat before pushing out through his dry lips. He doesn’t feel fear nor does he feel relief as she stops right in front of him. He dares to stare her in the eye as he gathers his thoughts and wriggle his tongue to paint them into his oncoming words. But he worries that his tone will waver, akin to the wind that made the back of his neck spring up with gooseflesh.

“I apologize,” He begins slowly, “It was never my intention to keep secrets from you. I was only trying to keep her entrance theatrical; late. And _my_ power…is _my_ power. I am humble enough to admit that…I choose to remain clueless of its lineage.”

As Gardenia closes her hands, the beam of light fades back into the breaking sun, light and misty. There is no amusement in her eyes any longer, but disappointment, as if she already knows something. Her lips part but Krow doesn’t have the stomach to decipher what letters it forms to shape and how much effort she puts into making them imprint into his head. He only listens, where her voice is only above a whisper.

“If you have chosen to be clueless, then that means you’ve already known and have chosen to _deny it._ ”

Krow lowers his head, eyes empty of her light. He braces himself for the impact of a stinging slap, his words already spilling from his lips.

“I have nothing to say to you.”

The slap never comes, Gardenia decides he isn’t worth that much pain.

“I’m sure you don’t. And…I hope you keep it that way. While I’m in power, I don’t want to see you anywhere near my daughter ever again.”

But her words hit harder than the slap.

  


『✭』

  


_The White Hollow woods are getting colder_ , Y/N notices, tracing her finger along the edges of an uprooted sprout. The twin leafs, no bigger than her ring finger, is frostbitten, cold, and fragile as flakes tingle but melt quickly against her skin. The roots are dry as the early rain could not seep deep enough and let them come undone easily like silk ribbons, but Y/N handles it with care. 

By some unspoken call, Yven is right by her sister’s side, taking the sprout from her hands and smooths it into the cold, sopping dirt. Her chest fills as she breathes longingly with her fingers curling tensely, the sprout already growing slowly by the roots, embedding itself into the ground before the twin leaves twist to welcome another length of a stem. It grows to a periwinkle bud until it unfurls into a blossoming flower. Y/N is amazed by Yven's power, impressed that she is growing as much as her abilities. Just a few days ago, her sister couldn’t bring herself to fix a patch of crooked flowerbeds.

“It won’t be long until it dies again,” Yven says sadly, but Y/N raises her hand to her half-sister’s shoulder, rubbing it gently, “Father says that the snowblight this year will be the coldest of the century. I can’t imagine even the thickest trees will survive it.”

“I’m sure they will,” Y/N assures with a stronger smile, “Together they will. You and I can tend to the forest and the others can tend to the fauna. I’m certain that the woods will survive the next hundreds of snowblight with our help.”

“Your positivity is appreciated, sister. I’m looking forward to it. But…I just hope mother would allow it.”

Y/N thinks of other seasons in her life, the events the Amisian commoners would hold in their world’s honor. She is reminded of a time before Gardenia had wed her father, when it was only the two of them who would bask in that glory. Back then, she didn’t need to step away to make room for someone else, not that she ever minded, but that space in the spotlight was crowded. She couldn’t remember a time when she was standing next to her father there. Her step-mother was ever-so controlling over her life now. Y/N worries for her future, much less than her half-siblings, however.

Yven returns to Demetrius and Florentine, standing near deep and thin lines of dirt pits in the ground, standing away at a good length. 

_Every time_ , Y/N thinks classically, rising straight with her shoulders arched back, her chin high as it was trained to be. An unnatural form for her, however.

“Sister? If you would be so kind?” Florentine asks with wide, sparkling eyes that Y/N nearly vomits over. Though appalled, she is unable to deny her request. Y/N channels herself attentively, her hands stretching open and hovering over the pits. Her breathing is steady and natural as an unworldly power heeds her call. 

The mist had turned into winds and the fog had turned into a breeze, where the whipping formations circled together in fading forms. The vortex dissolved into pure moisture, dripping out of the center and filling the pit below, drop by drop. The fluidity of Y/N’s power quickens with a sharp, hitching breath, and a large, delicate tide pours out of her hands. 

They had created a perfect river, flowing deep and long to the ends of the White Hollow woods, much like many others. This river wasn’t particularly special, but once it reached the palace, it would certainly gain some attention.

“If we keep this up, Meister Mavenpoor would have no choice but to turn the woods into our training ground. The water would reach the moat and turn into a sea. Victory will be mine!”

Y/N drags her eyes around to Wisp and his silly upbeat declaration. The youngest prince is excitingly wild and would most likely last throughout the rest of the outing. Y/N already predicts that she would have to carry his sleeping self back to his quarters at the beginning of dusk.

“True. But Mavenpoor would also have no choice but to cut your sweets down by half, should that happen,” Y/N relinquishes at her brother’s dropped expression, “Alright then, triplets, should I meet you at the other end of the woods for another?”

“Most certainly!” Florentine winks with a giggle, followed by her sisters’ unified laughs.

“Kidding!” Wisp shouts fast with his arms high to block his step-sister from taking another step, “I was…kidding.”

The young prince finds himself flushed red as his older sisters laugh merrily. He doesn’t shrink away but the arches of his shoulders hug tight at his neck, his hands tucked under his arms. Wisp tries to listen to the sound of the winds that have quieted, moaning ominously with hollow intent. He feels calm, but stirs uncomfortably as he listens to the sound of footsteps. 

The rain didn’t carry out far from the woods, but the ground was still wet with mud at the entrance. Wisp was proud of himself after hearing something that far away above the sound of laughter.

“Cervantes and Morok are back,” Y/N speaks first, much to Wisp’s chagrin, wild eyes flickering to their brothers’ direction, where they appeared out of the fog, out of breath and grinning ear-to-ear.

“What took you so long? Had trouble finding the way back?”

Morok shakes his head at his elder half-sister, slipping off his leather gloves before reaching down to his leather belt, a satchel dangling from his hip and wrapped with a red cloth. Y/N watches as he unfolds the bag, ripping it open to reveal a few metallic training swords, retracted and ready for use.

“It was hard to find the training equipment under all the professional ones. You don’t like to be organized, I’ll admit,” Morok jests lowly, ignoring the pointed look his sister throws at him, “But I thought a bit of hide-and-seek would be today’s festivity.”

“ _Hide-and-seek?_ ” Wisp echoes with an arched brow, “Why would we need training swords for _hide-and-seek?_ ”

“It’s simple,” Cervantes shrugs, pulling out one of the swords and holding it up for all to view, “It’s not your usual hide-and-seek. But stealth and strategy are your key points. The time limit is five minutes. One person is ‘ _it_ ’, but they must hide from all the others until time is up. Should they be found, they must defend themselves using these,”

Cervantes tosses the training sword in his hand to Wisp, who catches it with two frantic hands. The weight is a little heavy, but the sword is thin enough for Wisp to let it dangle loosely from his fingers. He is reminded of Y/N, who once reminded him of the proper poise and techniques, something they hadn’t discussed in many months. 

To show he wasn’t forgetful, Wisp clutched it vicely. 

“‘ _It_ ’ can save themselves by knocking the person who found them into the dirt, or simply running away. But where’s the fun in that?”

“And if ‘ _it_ ’ is cornered by _more_ than one person?” Y/N questions slowly, reaching down into Morok’s satchel and pulling out a training sword of her own. The button she brushed against with her thumb clicks, extending the other half of the dulled blade, a weak light hitting the tip. 

A beat of silence passes before Cervantes gives her a half-grin, his shoulders lifting.

“Good luck.”

An unexpected chill trickles down the nape of Y/N’s neck, ushering a precaution she would have settled before a war. Her eyes watch mindfully as her siblings lower their swords, their gazes flickering over one another as each of them wonder who would be ‘it’. Their weaknesses and strengths go through each of the six’s minds, but Y/N instead, is focused on her routes. 

“I have eight coins in my satchel. Silver is safe, but gold is ‘ _it_ ’.” 

Morok rallies his siblings in a circle before tossing the satchel from his belt and onto the ground, right in the middle. Together, they close their eyes and bend their knees. Some are at the perfect height and some of them bend even lower as they each pick up a coin.

Y/N’s palm gently melts onto the moistened dirt, her fingers curling with anticipation. She feels her way upward and closer to the pile of coins, where the top of her knuckles as she drags her hand through the mush, feels something cold. 

“I have a bad feeling I might have picked up a bug instead of a coin.” Demetrius, kneeling beside Y/N, whispers wearily. Her half-sister’s mouth thins and stretches from ear-to-ear.

“A bug is better than the odds of picking a gold coin, believe me.” 

The coin in Y/N’s hand feels light, thick and metallic. The jagged edges are rough under the pad of her thumb with the circular braided border. She feels the tiny bumps along close lines, where some stretch out in an awkward angle—scales and wings. Following the lines downward, Y/N predicts the coin; a dragon—a _dragoon_ , mostly used in the northern reach of Amis.

Y/N peels open her eyes, seeing in the light after darkness the coins in her siblings’ hands; silver wyverns, lesser beasts— _wren_ coins from the western isles.

“Why am I not surprised?” Morok mumbles airily under his breath, to which he is elbowed roughly by Cervantes who sends him a pointed glare. The shining silver in their hands is put away in their pockets and takes out their swords, instead. Their bended poises rise, standing tall as they readied themselves, stretching loosely.

Y/N finds herself opposed to the notion of being ‘ _it_ ’ in such a game. The face of fate was deciding to play coy, testing her the previous night and this day.

A sudden warmth begins to brush against the children’s cheeks, their attention snapped to face their eldest brother. Morok, whose hand bloomed a fire that was particularly strong and blazing, had waned terribly, a sight that even brought his sister a great worry.

“A storm is coming,” Morok whispers, fearful of the rumbling sky, “Think we’ll be able to make it back in time?”

The children of Skaraeith turn to their sister, unbalanced in restraint and eagerness.

Y/N reluctantly puts away the gold coin and raises her sword.

“Definitely not,” Y/N smiles, “Let’s go.”

  


『✭』

  


Natasha runs the pad of her finger along the darkened circles under her eyes. The face staring back at her begs for a waking release, any moment of nullification, the absence of sorrow and worry, would never again slip between her fingers. She loved her work but was never fully invested into the idea, not as her agenda changed. 

And so, Agent Romanoff had no choice but to return to the confinements of the _Triskelion_ in Washington. 

_Project Pegasus_ _was out of the question_ , said Nick Fury, but their new project; Constellation _NAIDEK, would_ work sufficiently for their research department and agreeable for the government. Specifically Alexander Pierce was open to the idea, with Tony Stark and Steve Rogers on the frontline, but he was most concerned for the unit that would navigate their way into the unknown. They were weary of their exploration, however, with a little convincing from Natasha setting off a Widow’s Bite taser with a rubber adhesive during the conference, the public came to a quick, unanimous, and pale agreement. 

Constellation _NAIDEK_ aka _Not Asgard I Don’t Even Know_ , named by Tony, obviously didn’t get the briefing packets Pepper had mailed him as he came stumbling into the lower sub-levels of the Triskelion. His eyes were glassy, remnants of bourbon droplets caught in his goatee, and the questionably unfaded brown stain on the collar of his dress-shirt proved that. He looked like a mess, yet Natasha wasn’t fazed enough to bring it up. 

Spotting Steve with Director Fury, brows furrowed in thought and mouths forming a sequence of incoherent words, Natasha untucked the manilla folder from under her arm, her creme-painted nails digging into the papers with the grip of uncertainty.

“Sir, I just don’t think Tony is ready to be out there yet. He should stay here, on _guidance_.” 

Steve’s words didn’t make the one, infamous eye of Nick Fury close in defeat. Instead, Nick Fury turned his body to the soldier, his arms folded within his black, leather trench-coat.

“Stark said that he was willing to cooperate as long as he didn’t do anything drastic. The pod carries twenty dozen Iron Legion prototypes and Stark will pilot them remotely. I do not intend to send one of you out in this new territory empty-handed.”

“It’s _poorly-handed,_ ” Steve uttered lowly, “Safety for both sides is what matters. If one of us falls, this whole thing collapses. If anything goes wrong, if anything happens to one of us, just know; I will do whatever I have to. Whatever it takes.”

“Oh, I just might count on that.” Fury affirmed before striding to Natasha, who stood as a silent witness to their small stand-off. 

Even obedient, she was an honest woman, despite her job. She didn’t want to have Tony back in the field after everything. Even at a distance, she would’ve begged Fury to let him stay home and rest, never to be within ten feet of the tower. But all the Widow could do was follow orders.

“Pilots are on stand-by but we need some extra reinforcements to deliver the next payload. Pierce’s new confidant insisted.” 

Fury informed slowly, drawing the packet of papers from the manilla folder where a highly contrasted sheet was labeled _‘CLASSIFIED; VESSEL X290 -_ ** _THE ABEONA_** _’_. A fine spacecraft, crafted with the help of an associate of Alexander Pierce of whom Thor Odinson recommended. Nick Fury didn’t know their face, surprisingly. In fact, he hadn’t seen his old partner in crime for a while. But he was sure to send them his regards. 

The vessel was armed, granted by certain protocols. Natasha was doubtful that they would need an aerial fighter on their mission, however, she was rather impressed by artillery range. She didn’t have a reason to complain as there were new upgrades awaiting for her Widow’s Bite.

“Sector 5 runway must be clear of any mishaps, threats, or some dumbass malfunction by incompetent workers,” Fury spat as he threw a pointed look at the ground-control division team, who shirked down in quivering fear, “Rhodes and Barton are already at their posts.”

“You convinced Barton to take patrol?” Natasha mused, coyly raising a brow to her superior who gave a tired shrug.

“I made a compromise. Three weeks off-duty for an hour of standing below twenty degrees. Oh yes, Romanoff, I convinced him.”

The port was clear for a test run and Nick Fury was intent on taking every opportunity. What didn’t matter to him, however, was the risk of his best team being torn apart in this new territory. No matter how many precautions he took to ensure their safety, to make sure they returned home with a complaint, he needed to be five steps ahead—something he just could not do. 

Advanced beings, other lifeforms and eternity—they all meant nothing to him once. 

**_“The Abeona is ready, sir.”_** The buzzing voice in Fury’s ear announced.

“Ready on my end.”

Natasha threw a pointed glance at Steve, whose fist tightened over the leather band attached to his vibranium shield. Sensing the manifestation of something more than fear brewing behind steely-blue eyes, her hand floated to her friend’s shoulder, running her fingers gently over the tough fabric that protected the vulnerable shell of a patriotic and caring man. 

“Hey,” The Widow cooed, “If things do go to shit, I’ll be counting on you to wave that shield around and buy a girl a new holster.”

For a second, Steve’s mouth thinned into a faltering smile. What remnant of familiarity and fondness he had left remained strong and unbroken.

“Buy me a vintage record player and we’ll call it even.”


	5. Night Omen 「5」

## 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐋𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

Y/N had found the divot of mud between a valley of periwinkle stems, bound unevenly and tangled— _underdeveloped_. The half-blood’s mind circulates and pumps neuronic data, the veins around her eyes pulsing vividly as she peers deep into the fog ahead of her. What’s unseen that lied ahead form into an estimate. Descriptive, intricate patterns in multiple directions begin to map themselves, starting in front of Y/N’s own feet. 

Y/N was not significantly talented in navigation, as she was rather used to mapping out the stars and gateways beyond the outer realms. But the fog, bare and heavy, like interstellar clouds, was enough to compensate. For extra caution, Y/N remembers the vast, thinly blue stems.

The veil beyond finally lifts for Y/N to see, bare and vulnerable, and what all Y/N needs to do next is take a step.

_Yven_ , the name echoes plainly through the misty barren. In response, Y/N’s expert footwork followed the opposing direction and took her eastbound, where the fog is even heavier. Although this game seemed fun with their limitations, the eldest Amisian couldn’t disregard their perception. They were starting to become a challenge the older they got. But, although the fog was thick, Y/N had already pierced through the shroud with a lift of her finger. 

The dark cloud of gray and haze curled into a sparkling canopy, a protective crystal shell that Y/N easily maneuvered within, her footsteps being the guide that continued to hover forward. The clear droplets in the air didn’t disperse as she bounded deeper into the forest, but moved and returned into its broken and floating state. Y/N isn’t uncreative, but ultimately decides to play fair.

As she moves within her shield of rain, Y/N feels the cold lug dramatically, nearly parting her kempt hair. She swatted away stray strands and cards through the fanning locks, eyes narrowing in the direction of two particularly thin trees, intertwined by their chipping and brittle roots and trucks that protruded from the earth covered in flaking, white cloves. 

_An omen_ , Y/N notes cautiously, the weak sword in her hand being clenched tighter.

Various omens haunt even the most wasted of lands on Amis, beyond the safety of the Echealion where the only real worry there was that vast and endless sky. What laid before Y/N’s eyes was not worthy of a chill jittering down her spines, but worthy of a nervous twitch in her hands with a beat of imperious fear. She could only imagine the darkness that made these strong trees grow eons ago—how much blood it took to have this omen bloom in warning.

Her father called it _Halves Coil_ , though Y/N never really did know what it had meant. Remnants of her father’s soothingly deep voice, what little she remembered from his lectures was flowing back to her at a slow pace. The Halves Coil represented some kind of twist between two halves. Their souls bound by some external, unnatural force, a sign of change. 

_Something like that_ , Y/N thinks dejectedly as she passes through the curved mouth of the coiled trees. Like most children, Y/N would have much rather practiced sword-fighting or explore the labyrinth under the palace than focus on her studies. Even as a half-blood with limited access, even as the most dishonorable conception, she remained a bright-spirited youth for centuries. 

Y/N is brought at the end of her first path to the opening of a remotely large patch of barren land. This spot is empty of any presence, as Y/N feels the movement within the fog, like a spider feeling the vibrations of any unfortunate insect caught in her web. The tips of her fingers tingle as Y/N feels only the wind begin to blow again, a heavier patch of blistering fog fans and pricks against her cheeks.

This forest of clouds was beginning to make her marksman-ship skills finally wane. Y/N could feel her own exhausted breath weigh against her, her lungs swaying heavier, the skin on her chest stretching and pulling tighter. The whispers of the wind became a roaring harmony, ominous and haunting—a stirring thing for the master of storms.

What was the most odd, the most horrific in that beat of whispers, was that the northern wind _curved_ west.

It shouldn’t have been possible, but there was no denying it. 

Y/N could feel every instinct within her blazing and fearful body that either her siblings had outmatched her, or that something else was here. 

And there it was, behind the tree just ahead; _a shadow._

**_“YAAAAAAAAAAH!”_ **

_Above!?_

There was barely any time to recover from such a terrifying thought. Y/N swung her sword with such a wild and berserk strength that the half-blood nearly forgot to look up, where her first opponent, Morok had plummeted downward. His body felt like a sunblight’s wave, heated and overbearing, the tail-ends of his clothes trail with tireless fires, simmering and long like wrathful vipers. Hot and blazing, Morok seethed against his sister with a valiant and fair effort; a red comet.

“ _Finally_ ,” Y/N breathes grittily, “Nice of you to drop in.”

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Morok spits with equal wit.

This was his own gift; fire. Hot-headed, brash, courageous, and loyalty was molded into the boy’s bones, the eldest prince was neither too far or dead-on as a model ruler nor a bratty child, but a free-spirit, much like his half-sister. He was a prodigy, but still a student.

“How’d you even find me?” Y/N asks as she flings away her brother’s form, where he catches himself at the balls of his heels before launching again.

“Your body heat, sister,” Morok replies confidently, raising his tensed arms, “All it took was a second to feel how considerably warm it got.”

The sibling swords clashed with a metallic trill that had frightened a pack of wyverns hidden in the trees, the distant sound of their frantic wings beating had been overpowered by Y/N’s mere inner breath. Her eyes wrangle with the sight of her brother’s gallant, red face and the thick cloud of mist parting from their own hot breaths. 

“Is today finally the day we threaten your winning streak?”

“Perhaps.” Y/N smirks, gritting her teeth.

Y/N could feel the weight of her younger brother’s body, a little lighter than his, begin to apply to the strength in his arms against her. The shrill of their metallic rods scraped together in a horrible symphony before grittily snapping, what semblance of their harmony was left ringing in Y/N’s red-tipped ears. Their blades had clashed apart as Y/N thinks hastily, jerking her tensed biceps upward to thwart Morok away, where his body wafts with her nudge, giving her only one beat of time to recover whatever was left.

  


『✭』

  


_How many years has it been? A hundred and twenty years? A hundred and thirty?_

Amwren Ramses was not completely sure of his own mind these days. With each passing year, his reign would wane as well as his form—his mind and body—lessening in ability. Unlike his natural-born power, he was never that well trained with a sword, unlike most of his own children and people who were practically born holding one. The opportunity to learn the arts of war was not a gift, but a building instinct that grew stronger with each generation.

And there have been many, _many_ generations.

However, he was not worried about his own faltering skills. Not in the least bit, not at all. Not with his daughter still standing by his side for centuries—the happiest and most brightest of his times as peacekeeper of their gold realm.

At this sundown, the Echealion would be inviting the _Saeles_ folk, from the eastern Norrath sea, to their palace for the anniversary of their alliance—what Ramses could remember, at least. Though they were a noble dynasty, they weren’t among the wisest. Wisdom does not pass quickly over a generous family, even as they overlooked their region often in the King’s stead. The unification of their empires were among the strongest yet the most young. Meister Mavenpoor remarked that such friendships are with the likes of prepubescent adolescents. 

He would not be joining them that night.

Ramses and his wife, Gardenia stood accompanied by a troop of Atralis knights, awaiting at the _Seeing Gates_. It was the connection of Amis, the bridge of the world where each region of the planet could cross to meet, to stay. The Echealion rested in the center of the planet’s region, surrounded by a hierarchy of beings with lesser status. Even so, Ramses had remembered when it was first built, when the first dynasties walked along their paths for the first time—a _lifetime_ ago.

Ramses could not, for the life of him, forget those who remained faithful in perpetuity to the Skaraeiths. Each red stain in the snow, each shred of bone left in the valley, for every tear shed in ruined homes, the Skaraeith allies’ sworn servitude had been questioned with each passing year. That phrase, this mantra, the promise that had been formed to protect Amis was beginning to be but a praying whisper. No one prayed anymore. No one had to.

In the distance, they could see the large plate of a moving ocean, the palanquin of sea-foam green, black, and blue; the Saeles had arrived. Ramses could feel the burning gaze of his wife, where the heat of her impatience rested just above his shoulder. Somehow, he had already known of his wife’s limited tolerance and had reached down ever-so slowly and squeezed her hand to comfort. 

Nothing moved. Blessed by his kindness, Gardenia’s tension ceased almost instantly. 

The copper reigns of gracious and pretty beasts with fish scales and hooves pulled it as they trotted along the white, marble, and stone bridge that stretched as far as a ten miles, carved and molded with strength and aged with presences—as it should be. 

Slim, white towers with stained-glass rotundas were accompanied with high-born lords and advisors from each region, dwindling within the shiny veins of gold that accented each wall. Rumors afloat would say that the whispers of the wise and deceased would echo throughout the howling nights, the winds carrying their prayers to every region. 

Ramses never bothered with such nonsense, but was wiser than to be so stiff.

“Look at them, my love,” Ramses leaned to whisper to her, “The Saeles are known for their talents of taming the _Orti_ ; the small gods of the sea. Wild, aquatic-stallions that could pull the ocean over the land in a herd.”

Gardenia’s eyes fluttered, uninterested, “I can smell them from here.”

Norrath was famous for the exotic, not only for their cultural arts, but also their fauna. Blue and green-scaled stallions with fins and gills, birds with a rainbow iridescence in their feathers where their wings would stretch from one end of the planet to the other, and billions of sea-life, prone to water and land—nothing was a limitation to them. 

The overarching pillars of their palanquin came together in a splendid pattern, where runes and archaic artwork of older times accented the decor. Battles and festivals that Ramses did not have the pleasure of seeing. The azure, sheer-silk portiere danced gracefully as the chariot had passed through the final, closest tower. From even where they stood, the small dragons perched on the edges of the bridge shifted their leathery wings closer over their eyes as they found the embroidered golden crest was a little blinding. 

Meister Mavenpoor, who stood at a respectable distance at his king’s side had thought with a slender of disappointment, _they’re quite pompous_.

Finally the bridled beasts, with their fins brushing against the plated marble floors, pulled to a halt. The palanquin flowed with the twin, silk curtains before splitting apart to reveal a standing family of four; a father, a mother, a son, and a daughter—twins. 

Dark-skinned, wavy and curly hair as black as the night, fair eyes as blue and green as the sea, tall and undisputed, smiling with white painted lips. Their fingers, ears, and noses were ringed with gold, in such an array of thick pieces that Ramses was mesmerized. Blue and silver cloths with black plated armor rested on their shoulders and back, embroiled gold patterns of their folk’s sigil; an Orti.

The Norrath sea certainly did behold wonders of the strange and the benevolent. Ramses could not wait for this night to begin. Gardenia, on the other hand, could not wait for it to end.

“My friend,” The heavily drawled accent of the patriarch, _Overon_ , greeted loudly, “It has been too long. You look well.”

“Aside from you,” Ramses laughed, clasping a hand on his back, “Fat of wine and steamed hog meat. I didn’t have the time to prepare a feast…something I can never afford.”

Overon had then burst into a loud round of laughter, where his wife, _Riva_ , had collected the hands of her children with faint smiles. Riva was known for her exotic beauty, as she was different from the Norrath-settled Amisians. Her head was oblong-shaped, her cheekbones ran sharp along with her jaw, where others from her region might be heart-shaped and curved. The hair that rested on her shoulders were curlier than wavy, tied with lapis and amber beads that were an old gift from queen to lady.

Gardenia, admittedly, never chose them. 

The son, _Cyreus_ , was a spitfire, famous for his expeditions around the southern reach of the _Nyrriean islands,_ known for leading the Violet Revolution, where captured refugees banded together and overtook a fortress of bandits, where blue water mixed with blood and turned the sea a deep purple. The first-born son was known as the Slaver Prince or the Purple Orti. 

The daughter was an innocent bird, fond of the wild and carefree of her duties as a noble. She could never sit-still, but never desired to put a sword in her hand. The tendencies of a youthful girl was troubling, as Overon complained once long ago, Ramses could not have agreed more. The second-born daughter, _Marinella_ , was called a Seabreeze.

“Come, my friend, we have much to discuss.” Overon pulled Ramses by his shoulder and led the way back to the palace.

“Yes, we certainly do.”

  


『✭』

  


_Footsteps to the right, light like a lorn’s but with a questionable crunch, as if the earth under their feet went rocky._

_Florentine_ , Y/N concludes, swinging her blade to the right, where it clashes against her’s. 

Y/N can already feel her sister’s rank strength, notably in her elbows as the impact nearly sent her shoulders jerking backwards. What Demetrius had out of being a triplet was a cruel brawn like a thick-hided beast, what Y/N often notes is similar to a _Murid_ —a humanoid-like apex predator with quite the smell. Demetrius was already a formidable tank, however, a poorly-minded strategist. 

The half-blood opens her mouth to suck in a heavy breath, drawing her neck forward as she hurls her torso with it. Successfully throwing Demetrius from her sword, Y/N lets the entirety of her one foot melt into the mud, unbothered by her shoes that suddenly kicks up chunks of wet mud as she swings her other charged leg with a nimbly able speed.

The joints in her bones nearly jitter out of place, but Y/N manages to maneuver her head back up again, where she finally sees and feels the reckoning impact of her leg hitting Florentine at her open side, nearly shattering two ribs. The elder sibling doesn’t falter as she hears her sister choke on her own tongue, feeling the wind curve from her strangled breath. 

“That’s cheating.” Demetrius chokes against the heated air.

“It's a strategy.” Her sister remarks, turning.

Y/N’s arm pivots with her training blade, where the rain shield dips with her hand, accurately deflecting Morok’s balled, flaming fist that stupidly swings instead of his own sword. Fire and water turn into a thick cloud of steam, explicably heavier than the fog that clears for a beat, before being swirled and gone into the mouths of tired forces. 

Y/N reminds herself dejectedly to give Morok an extra lesson with the training swords and losing week’s worth of pyro-privileges. His strength does not match his skill as Morok is flung to the other side, where he is now kneeling at his fallen sister’s side, the pull of his own lungs under the heavy fog rendering him already exhausted. 

_They are wet as mildew on blades of grass_ , Y/N thought orderly, properly rising.

The training sword in her fingers begins to waver in a repeated pattern—twirling. The veins around her eyes pulsate as her focus settles onto their drenched, light-armor. They had only dipped into Y/N’s protective shield of rain, where the collective drops reform with a vicious gust, but they were already doomed.

_Give them a chance_ , Y/N scolds herself. 

“Did you forget about the weapon?” Y/N breathes, narrowing at Morok whose face tenses.

“I didn’t,” He snaps softly, “I just wanted to try something out.”

“Well, it didn’t work,” Y/N airily laughs as she stops spinning the rod in her hand, tapping the tip of the blade against the dryer earth, “Again.”

Morok doesn’t waste a second to kick upwards in a vicious lunge. He doesn’t think twice to shirk from his sister’s classical, wild nature, finding within himself that same, maniacal force in his bones to swing first. With all his strength, the red comet flares again where it nearly singes the strays of Y/N’s hair, the sword in his hand sinks deep in the fog before clattering out of his hand.

Swiftly, Y/N brings her torso graciously twirling, breathing for a good measure, where Morok sees her own fist delving. The pad around her knuckles saves both of them from immense damage, but inflicts an underestimated pain that sends Morok writhing on the ground, drenched in mud.

“Come on, then,” Demetrius is brought back to reality by Y/N’s challenge, “Try again.”

Before Demetrius can cut through the fog, she feels a pounding in the sopping mud under her bare feet. The vibrations against the air that whipped violently were more malicious than the thundering of the earth. 

_“Oh?”_

It had turned the heads of the ground forces, where an aerial divinity decides to unleash his wrath from above, swinging at a surprised Y/N who barely has time to deflect the thrusted tip of a visibly carved blade.

“You broke my sword.” Y/N inquires to her younger brother, the second-prince.

Feral and blazing met against brooding and collected—eyes like each other, yet never the same. Cervantes was fearless in the face of danger, never backing down from one’s challenge, much like his elder brother. However, he very much wanted to be either like his sister or elsewhere. 

_The sword in his hand isn’t held as tight as his brother’s_ , Y/N notes. 

Cervantes’s wrist is noticeably loose as his pointed elbow moves fluidly back, his joints taking such recoil and thrusted once more against Y/N who parried graciously. Their movements were as swift as the changing wind, a howling dance that appealed to the whispers in the fog that turned into a gusting chorus. Their blades dragged against each other, akin to a finger tracing the flow of a gentle river. 

Cervantes does well to match his sister’s movements, short and uneven breaths huffing from his lungs where he ultimately takes in one, big gulp of air between his teeth. The second prince’s strategies and quick-thinking are an impressive feat, as Y/N barely manages to remise Cervantes’ jaggedly pointed tip that thrusts outward, her body nearly acting out of instinct, driven on border-line fear. 

Cervantes wastes no time and Y/N is there to make use of that moment.

“Put more strength into your arms, Cervantes. Being tense for a second would be enough to help you win for once.”

“Bold of you to assume I even want to win,” Cervantes gives her a trying smile, “I just want to go back to sleep.”

The half-blood’s heel delves into the mud, kicking up a slope that creates a much sturdier weight, where her parry is clean and precise. Their swords chance together, igniting what proximity they hadn’t had in a long time. The sibling’s last outing was certainly not this intense, as Y/N could feel the nape of her neck become slick with sweat, a tingling sprinkle of the excitement sprouting at the ends of her hair.

“Beat me at least once,” Y/N raises her knee, kicking down Cervantes into the dirt who coughs hoarsely, “And I’ll give you a Norrathian silk pillow.”

What drives the prince is wasted. The energy in his bones is used to brace himself from another one of Y/N’s kick, driving him further into the murky puddles of discarded rain that showered from Y/N’s shield. It expands lengthy around the field before bursting, the fog engulfing the children once more as they question just what their sister’s next move is.

And so, she _ran_.

Cervantes would never have predicted his sister running away.

“Come on, brother,” Cervantes hears Morok’s huff as he is pulled from the ground, “It’s the second phase, now.”

“I’m surprised we even managed the first.” Cervantes groans sorely.

  


『✭』

Marinella and Cyreus were fond of the paintings the most. 

The oil-based streaks were filled with iridescent hues, curled and stretched across a large number of canvases—warcraft and harmonious paintings. The battles fought over eons ago—history—was a thing that was most overlooked in the Norrath region, where they only lived in the pleasures and prosperity of the present. Now, as Ramses thinks, he is beginning to understand what Mavenpoor had said.

_Young they were, indeed_.

Marinella, the little princess, had recognized only one of the battles depicted in the towering, embroidered and gold-stone walls; the main war of the First Age _. The War of Sand and Sea_ , where the first Norrathians laid a siege on the Irien dunes—a dispute that was long forgotten in her young, soft head. The princess’ eyes had fallen upon the depiction of the first Norrathian matriarch; _Biliria Onera_ , _The Lady of Sorrow_ , commanding blue, black, and gold soldiers against ivory, amber, and gold armies. 

Marinella felt an unwavering pound in her heart, one of sadness and the loss of hope. The Seabreeze, possibly for the first time, felt utterly still within these great halls.

“This one has Princess Y/N in it, mother,” Cyreus observed another red-and-black-soaked painting with enthused, wondrous eyes, “A lot of them do.”

“Y/N has fought many battles over the years,” Overon followed, gazing at each of the paintings as his smile began to fall, “Good at it, too. Damn good. Makes me wonder every time why she stopped.”

Ramses had chosen silence, leading the dynasty out of the halls, where the grandeur of the Amisian throne room had awaited just ahead. Neither a smile nor a frown stretched his mouth, but his eyes graced a fear of truth—a truth that he and his daughter tried so hard to abide from. 

For a moment, he had thought of a valley of dying stars.

Gardenia had chosen her silence as well, anxious eyes flickering for mere seconds at each of the visages of Y/N’s conquests. She had heard stories about her step-daughter from even before she was wed to the king—stories of a child who wore blood for armor in one second, then used it as a weapon in the next. Gardenia paid no heed to such stories as a warning, but as rumor; legend.

But her eyes, evergreen and twinkling, looked at the paintings again.

It seemed that in those moments, after spending centuries in such a gargantuan palace, walking through the same walls and stairs, it seemed that for the first time, Gardenia had finally noticed the blood on Y/N’s hands—the red paint that symbolized the end of a life.

Although she would never admit it, Gardenia had begun to feel a little unnerved. 

Ramses himself did not choose to linger in such a thought. Instead, he brought his hand forward where he gestured the Saeles to their next destination down the final length of the corridor. It was rather hard to pry the eyes of the twins away from a certain picture, but they had followed their king in a hurry, the chills skittering down their heels to give them a quicker encouragement.

Riva had been looking at the same picture; the painting of the _Eidolon_ , a fable, and the _Old King of Amis_ —and there was much red paint.

Riva immediately sped away to return to her family who had stepped into the throne room.

That sanctuary was revered in Norrath as the _Heartseat_ , the true connection of the five regions, the center of Amis—the gold throne. The Norrathians had much respect for the structure, but found it to be much smaller than they had last anticipated. Overon didn’t say a thing, however, fearing what authority or power he let himself become blind to. His tongue was held even tighter within his jaw as he watched Ramses settle within that very, fearsome seat.

“We all make hard decisions, Overon. My eldest chose her family instead of conquest.”

“Shame. Cyreus won’t be as good as killing enemies than Y/N did.”

Although Overon let his words tumble blubbery, he was no fool. As big as he was, the brain in his hardened head was thick with sympathy, a known perceptive man among the lying living. Ramses could never escape that feeling of the fear of a lie being revealed, not with Overon, never with him, even when he had told no lies at all. 

At this moment, Ramses could not feel that terror seize his spine. 

Old, he was. He was, too. But not stupid. _Neither_ stupid.

“You intend to have your son fight my daughter’s battles?” Ramses questioned before chuckling, “I’m afraid your seventeen-thousand years too late.”

“I intend to have him do everything for her,” Overon replied, watching as his king and queen shift upon their thrones, “Never to be parted. Not only fight for her, but tend to her every need. Dutiful and bound.”

“Married,” Gardenia finished with a sparkle in her eye, “You want your son to _marry_ our daughter?”

Ramses already knew her daughter’s response, but said nothing.

“Their hobbies don’t stray too far from each other. Little conquerors, they are. We could build an empire greater than the Echealion, unite our people in such a way that we’ve never seen before. And soon, all will be the same; unified and peaceful. Why not, I ask. Why not?”

Gardenia had been on the edge of her seat as soon as she had pieced the two together. Her glittering and enthused eyes had never been taken from Cyreus, who had never moved, who did not seem to be the revered, young conqueror as his father described. Not that it mattered, not this time. The promising benefit was a troubling thought, Gardenia observed, but the odds of gaining such a favor appeared well in her eyes. 

She had sent a pointed look to her husband who did not seem to be moved by his friend’s proposition.

“Because she is my daughter.”

With that, Gardenia begrudgingly slid back down in her smaller throne.

A few moments of hesitation rested in the imbalanced air, where Ramses foresees another predicament by the red-tipped ears of his friend, who pried his jaw open ever-so slightly. 

“What does your son make of this matter?”

“I’ve accepted it without hesitation, my king,” Cyreus suddenly declared, jutting himself into the debate before his father could speak for him, “I have admired Princess Y/N for many years. I already understand and whole-heartedly accept that she has no claim to the throne. And if she were to be my wife…I am willing to give her everything.”

_But do you truly know what you’re going to give up?_

“My dear friend,” Ramses began with an unnerved sigh, “My daughter is…a _challenging_ woman. Retired from war. It would be hard to pursue her to agree to such a thing right away. I think it would be wise to pursue this proposal with a proper counsel.”

“Why need her permission?” Overon suddenly asks, haughtily, “The Wild Star must be tamed soon enough. Her recent battles have been nothing but a child’s play, a young soldier’s thirst for war. Why let her continue to pursue this immature and reckless path?”

“We should be thankful to the gods that my daughter is not taking any _real_ lives,” Ramses lowly reminds, “Her prominence is just near the end of its prime. She will not be like this forever.”

But as far as Overon sees, he had already gained the queen’s favor.

“But it is only a matter of time before we turn in our graves, our legacy has yet to be planted. Your children are at risk of following the footsteps of your eldest—no responsibilities, half-witted, and bloodthirsty. If we do not act now, our entire kingdom will fall into ruin.”

Ramses cannot feel the fear anymore. For a moment, he feels like Overon, who was about to be caught in a lie.

“What are you waiting for, my King? Y/N has already turned down the throne once, and if she has the chance to be useful—“

_“—Because she is my child!”_

Overon stops as the palace suddenly rumbles.

The Saeles’ patriarch finally held their tongue for a moment, his knees buckling from the ground that suddenly moved with the king’s anger. Riva and her children nearly fled out of their seats to save themselves, not thinking to save their patriarch who stood open to take his punishment for speaking so recklessly.

They should have known better. There was no man, woman, not even a child alive on Amis that doesn’t know not to stir nor challenge the king. To wager, to put an end to his most cherished things was a plea for a slow and painful death.

It begs the question; _who is more fearsome? The conqueror daughter or the king father?_

Gardenia does not hide her disappointment in her husband’s response and she does not flinch from the shaking ground. She doesn’t feel the need to bat the eye anymore, never feeling a speck of foredooming pity on those who were in defiance of her husband—they were very much the same.

She had dealt with this for far too long, to the point where her anger rose higher like thunder over the sea. Her fingers stayed clasped tight under her blanched palm, where seeping light nearly made her unequal rage revealed.

Should she pry open her fist now, it would all be over.

Finally, Ramses releases a long sigh that blows the heavy atmosphere.

“Forgive me, my friend,” Ramses speaks gently, “That was terribly rude of me.”

Overon stays silent, raising his head that he didn’t even notice bow.

Riva and her children no longer cower behind their own shoulders and backs, for their faces could be seen now by the light of Gardenia’s gaze, who does not show a lick of sympathy for the lower folk. She never has, Riva reminds herself, she never will. Riva was a smart woman, devilishly clever—famous for marrying Overon who both have such perceptive eyes. 

Riva melts her palm with her son’s, finger lacing together, disappointed that all she could feel was the strap of rough leather. A mother’s touch will always be loving, but this was a touch of fear. 

Gardenia had kept staring at her; not blinking.

“My children are the most important thing in my life. Their happiness comes before the crown, how utterly selfish is that? But, as a father, I implore you to understand that I will go at any lengths to protect them.”

“I understand completely, my king.” Overon mutters.

“Then you must also know that you are right,” Overon gazes up at his king with bewilderment, and so does everyone else in the room, “I do not see my daughter ever stopping herself from living such a corybantic lifestyle. Not in this century nor the very next eon…However, I do see her putting her life for the kingdom, finding someone who she loves…and never letting them go,”

Ramses already thinks of the future he might never get to see; his dear Y/N in a gold and white dress—angelic with chaos brewing in her softened eyes. The heart in her hand is given to a faceless man that her father does not decipher, but asks to swear his life to her, as she does to him. He thinks of the children’s laughter he would never hear echo through the lost valleys, his own and her own, where they had made something of themselves in the world they continue to improve. 

But, despite the future Ramses so dearly wishes to see, he knows that Y/N would not give up her freedom so easily. He could already taste the blood in his mouth as he predicts Y/N’s response if he agrees to the cause immediately. She would definitely strike him, no question.

“I want to see my children happy. And I also would like to plant the seeds of the future. That is why, such responsibility must be taken accordingly…”

Overon lifts his hand swiftly, to silence his son who nearly speaks and questions his king. Cyreus does as he is gestured, but does not bite his tongue like his father does as a light almost blesses their shadow.

“Cyreus will meet Y/N properly, spending their time together until the next blue moon. Should she agree to the proposal, I will entrust my daughter and the future of Saeles and the further life of Amis into your hands.”

Gardenia finally looks away from Riva, to the gated doors that softly shuts closed. 

  


『✭』

  


Yven wanted to rip her ears out of her own head.

_“Phase two! Phase two!”_

Yven threw her head to the heavens, eyes glazed over with a fierce sign of irritation, anticipation that had been melted down ages ago and forged into impatience. She shot such intensity to Florentine, who stood on one of the many strong and creaking branches of the trees. Their white leaves melded easily with the misty canopy of the sky, where the sun barely reached Yven’s bare feet. 

_A sapling needs sunlight to grow; to flourish_ , Yven reminds herself disheartened.

“What do you suppose we’ll do if she manages to escape?” Yven asks as she twirls her sword, letting what semblance of sunlight lay atop the hilt. Yven fits her other hand atop, finding no warmth on her skin, disappointed.

“Chase after her,” Florentine brandishes her own sword, “Naturally. There’s only three minutes left.”

“Yes, but that’ll mean that we’ll need to hold our own for two.”

Florentine watches for any movement, below and above. She’s known to be extremely careful when tracking the movements of any opponent, especially in such a heavy shroud of mist. To her, Y/N is no different than any other opponent, she would still think the same—strategize the same. Florentine only reminds herself to be ready, as the only thing Y/N’s unpredictability was capable of was tripping over one of Yven’s protruding roots.

“The forest is still,” Yven suddenly mutters loud enough for Florentine to hear, “The leaves aren’t rustling anymore.”

_How could she not have noticed?_

Florentine agrees with her sister as she feels no motion under her feet nor against her bare palm that rested along the brittle trunk. What she expected to creak and lean with the swaying of the northern wind was merely silent, as if the forest stopped entirely. She feels a chill circulate in the center of her spine, her neurons rattling every system—a sign of danger.

Then, Florentine finally notices; _the mist is not moving._

“ _Florentin_ —“

She throws her head down to where her sister’s voice left, but found no trace of her anywhere.

“Yven!” Florentine steadies her footing as she prepares to leap from the tree, about to find and defend her sister.

_“AAAAAHH!”_

Yven’s scream carries throughout the barren land that suddenly moves entirely. The mist that had once been still for a long while begins to move in whipping forms. The white haze turns serpentines towards Florentine, who was trapped between her fight or flight instincts. Only the visage of the mist coiling around her sword made Florentine leap from the branch, abandoning her weapon completely, and plummeting from the spectacular height.

Eyes catch the divot of wet mud and joints crack alive—Demetrius flings her legs to the direction of the ground, where she ultimately saves herself. The blood that pumps in her head make the veins around her eyes pulsate, and the fear that Demetrius was undermining becomes her driving force.

“Yven! Where are you!?”

A sickeningly dry crack is heard above Florentine’s head, where she feels the splinters and chunks of wood rain down in her messy hair. She raises her head, seeing the coiled mist’s impact to the tree Florentine had left. The herculean force of the haze turned Florentine’s gears, where she had seen her own sword begin to charge directly at her.

_“Whoa!”_

The tip of the metal blade splits into three silver streams, followed by Florentine’s hand. Where the sword was about to drive itself into a strong point of her armor, the metal melts down and flies into various directions. Silver rain clumps into the mud, where it ultimately becomes solid again. 

_Metal_ , Y/N reminds herself, _Florentine influences metal._

Y/N was originally going to attack from the trees where Florentine was—the stronger sister than Yven, but she had speculated that Yven would notice and bend the trees to her own will; ultimately trapping Y/N. Poor in strength but a highly defensive mind in the heat of the moment; so, ultimately Y/N had gone for Yven first.

What Y/N did not speculate was the counter of the sword—where Florentine had melted it down and rolled out of the way, eyes meeting hers where fear overtakes her.

“Where is Yven?” Florentine whisperingly asks the half-blood, “I don’t see her.”

_“Help! I’m gonna be sick!”_

Florentine’s eyes flickered to behind Y/N, where strung up high in the air by her ankles, Yven had been helplessly wriggling and struggling against the mist that had kept her under Y/N’s grip. The color of Yven’s skin was a mix of white and pink. Red-flushed and pulsing, as the blood filling her head had begun to weaken her strength to fight the restraints. Florentine had felt a certain pity for her dear sister, as if she had forgotten about the half-blood standing in front of her, denying any memory of protection.

It had brought her to wonder—the both of them; _if Y/N was being cruel or if that was just her nature._

In a quick and desperate last resort, Florentine had curled her fingers and brought her hands forward. What remnant of the sword she carried had come together in one, bulbous clump. The silver and sheen black had come up from the dirt and lunged for Y/N, severing in two, where Florentine had hoped to at least distract her so she would have a chance to escape.

Instead, Y/N flung her head forward, missing the two forms of metal that had finally latched onto Yven’s ankles. Although freeing her from the mist, Yven was caught by Florentine’s own resort, ultimately restraining her by the legs to a nearby tree.

Even then, it was already too late. 

“Still want to fight?” Y/N asks solemnly, her eyes drifting to her slumped sister who meshed mud and grass together in her tight fists.

“You’ve got a minute left,” Florentine says, panting with a smile, “I think you’ll do just fine.”

The storm finally settles over the White Hollow woods, where Y/N decides.

Under the storm, the purest form of rain, Y/N had felt the most at ease. When the days were young and when she had bled more in her teeth than on her skin, the feeling of raging waters and spiteful clouds would wash such filth from her skin. War and battles, child’s play even, the struggles were all the same—equally blessed by storms. 

Y/N felt at ease, deciding to sit with her sister, who takes in the sight of their first win.

“No, I think I’ll stay.” The half-blood smiles, her fingers tracing the droplets that fell and ran down her knees.

Florentine calms herself of her pounding heart, swallowing dryly as she lets the rain soak her. In the distance, Florentine hears the first clap of thunder. It wasn’t as loud as she had thought.

“But why?”

“It’s been a long day…a long night. A _very long, long_ time since I’ve felt like this. My bones are still tired and so is my spirit. Today is not going as I planned, so I figured you all might just want a chance to relax with me, too. So, I’ll let you win.”

Florentine can’t believe her ears.

“For the first time? With only a minute left?” Florentine’s blubbering question is answered by Y/N’s slow nod, “Thank you, sister. I suppose we did not need our tricks or ideas to help us win this time.”

Y/N laughs somberly, her hand dipping into the mud, where a shallow pool of water engulfed the tips of her fingers. Florentine had eyed at the ground as well, finding various puddles of an astounding array circling near their feet. And Florentine’s eyes widened in revelation.

“That may be true, but I know _real_ tricksters,” Y/N inquires and lifts her head to the trees, six eyes staring back at her from within the wet darkness, “ _And you all, are not fooling me_.”

Fire and wind begin plummeting towards Y/N’s way, comets of the elder brothers’ own making. Morok and Cervantes dropped from the trees first, rampant and flushed as they fell with the heavy and black rain—where Morok’s hands crackled fire, Cervantes’s hands threw the semblances of the mist. 

The first rain of comets were turned to pure, clouded steam. Where Y/N’s hand thrown upwards from the puddle, the water from the others raised as well. All that Demetrius could hear before she had scrambled up to flee was the sound of the next clap of thunder.

Y/N dug her heel into the mud before she threw herself forward, untucking the sword from the clasp of her belt and faced her brothers head-on, neither batting an eye nor finding it within herself to smile, merely taking an astounding leap. Deflecting the fire that simmered with the rain was easy as it impacted the hilt of her sword, and the mist had hit the blade. With one, long stroke of the metal, the haze curved and hit the back end of the small comet—rain turning fire to steam.

_“Hey!”_

_“That’s not fair!”_

Y/N only dropped her sword and tucked in her fists, where she had maneuvered and landed a terrible blow to each of the brothers’ abdomens. Sickening pain blossomed over their stomachs, where they were more afraid of hurling on Y/N’s armor than wondering if she had managed to break one of their ribs. Their senses only followed the gentle whip of water that Y/N trailed behind as she aimed directly for the trees, where Florentine and Yven were waiting.

_No more toys_ , the siblings finally declared as they had gotten rid of their swords, _our own strengths are our weapons now._

Yven’s fingers bent crookedly, not having the same strength prior to two minutes ago, not dangling with blood filling her head. She could only manage to bend the will of the two branches close to Y/N’s opening near her hands. Any further and Yven could be out of the game with a lost shot; a wasted purpose. Yven had narrowed her eyes for a second, seeing Florentine run into the darkness of the woods, where relief eased her waning strength.

A sapling needs rain as well, Yven breathes for good measure, the violent force of the wind aiding her as it acted as her guide—accompanying the branches that grew at a tremendous length and charged for Y/N.

_You’re not the only one who gains strength from water,_ Yven thinks sharply, watching as the branches constrict the half-blood’s wrists, prone to stopping whatever force she has left.

_But do you control it?_

Ice; ice is all that was left on the wet wood. Yven does not see Y/N anymore from within the darkness of the storm as she is hidden by white. Moonlight blinks in numbers as it reflects off the shards and spraying ice that renders her binds to frosty splinters. Water was steeped in deep into the roots of all the trees, something that had given life to Yven’s powers—that external force.

All she could do was succumb to Y/N, who had clasped a tender hand onto her own wrist. Despite the ice that had shattered the tiny woodland, she did not feel cold. Flesh, full of their blood and respect had challenged against the cold of the storm, allowing Yven to close her eyes.

The third clap of thunder, soft and distant still.

She sees Demetrius now, who had saved her from falling onto the ground violently. Y/N’s mercy sings a distant song, as she lets Demetrius lay Yven on the ground—her head swimming with mindless and shrieking thoughts. Weak in strength, but a highly defensive mind. Too highly.

She allows Demetrius to come in close, where her skin is covered from her forearm to her shoulder in mud, mud that dries into a clay-like surface, and ultimately strikes Y/N across the cheek. A murid’s strength is ape-like and hysterical. The impact upon her tender cheek is more than enough to cause a bruising.

Y/N is thrown to the barren land, covered in mud, ice, soot, and rain—unheeded remnants of her siblings’ abilities. In a way, she was proud of them—each of them. She would definitely let them win the next time.

Demetrius does not notice the rain turn white—splintering white. Droplets turn into shards, turning into needles, into spikes, into lances; into a cage. At long last, Demetrius is surrounded by Y/N’s power—the power of fear and sensibility. What keeps Y/N calm is the sound of her siblings’ breathing; ragged and relieved. They are alive and well, encouraging each other to keep powering through, but is losing as much as they are gaining.

Demetrius realizes then that she does not need to keep being relieved any longer. 

Only still; as Wisp presses the tip of his sword against Y/N’s back.

_“We win.”_

The voice of a child overpowers the final clap of the lightning that strikes the woods. Thunder is the drums of the child’s breath, and the rain is the harmony that sings his tone. What Wisp does for the first time in his life, is bring Y/N to look down at him with overwhelming pride. He does not fear the hand that raises to his cheek, where her fingers gently stroke his cold and wet flesh, but embraces the tenderness of his sister. He wraps his arms around her, careful of the sword that drops as his hands circle around her hips.

Ice melts and drenches Demetrius once more, who staggers with wobbling knees. She nearly forgets to breathe as she cannot fathom the fact that they won. They finally won against Y/N. No one can believe it, as Demetrius observes, staring to her brothers who unwind from their budded forms in the mud and rain. 

Morok doesn’t see the streak of lightning anymore, nor the stars that have welcomed the night. The dark clouds that had shrouded the dusk have just settled, and Y/N had no intention of letting them disperse so quickly. The battle is over, the game has won.

Y/N can finally rest.

“How’d you find me?”

“You’re too loud, sister. I could hear you breathing under the storm and darkness.”

  



	6. Cloudburst「6」

## 𝐀 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞

Time moves slower in the palace than it did out in the White Hollow woods. The rain as seconds fell so quickly, and the claps of thunder struck through the air as the hour hand. Terrible winds signaled the passage of such time, and the siblings who lingered tiredly within the forest, all but one taking in that one moment—knowing for the first time that they had won.

“ _We won_ ,” Morok breathed hard, his mouth sagging, “We won! By the gods, _we finally won!_ ”

The eldest prince was flaming again, jumping and stomping hard in the mud that flew under the pelting rain. He danced as if he won the game by himself, gallant and all. Though the feeling of victoriousness and satisfaction was shared between all of the siblings, they grimaced, however, of the mud that stained their red and wet faces.

“Easy, brother,” Cervantes hissed, swiping a hand at his cheek, “You’re making us more filthy than we already are.”

“We won! We won! We won! We won!” The gleeful prince bowed low and collected the hands of the triplets, ignoring their cries as he began swinging them merrily with a hysterical and sudden strength. The girls, rising to their stumbling feet, screamed and squealed with delight as her brother led them to a dance in the storm, their feet wavering and splashing water and mud across their land. Eventually, they, too, had been lost in the victory, eager to dance with him and soon beginning to make their own moves.

Even Cervantes, as he was picking the mud from his trousers, could not help but join his siblings as they pranced about, singing obscenely with their chants with a face of utter bliss. He must have been entranced and eager, too. His pride could only let him be collected for so long. 

Wisp would have joined them, too. But he had chosen to remain by his sister’s side, curled to her arm to feel the warmth of her supple skin, not at all wet by the rain. She was warm and gentle. Although he would have liked to dance with them, a small hint of guilt would’ve plagued him if he left Y/N by her lonesome.

“ _Oh! Oh! There she goes! Back on her feet and with mud on her clothes! Oh! Oh! Here she comes! Tell us, dear sister, why so horribly glum~?_ ”

Y/N was not at all impressed by the song.

“How long have you all had this planned out?” Y/N asked Wisp, the youngest prince hearing the playful and grating growl in the back of her throat as she spoke.

“A long while,” Wisp’s bubbly giggle tingled lightly in Y/N’s head, “I think this is the first time we’ve actually won anything.”

“Oh, come on now. Don’t say that. Remember when we were by the _Nanrane_ rivers that one flowerblight? I let you all beat me with a stick and a pouch full of candles. I’d say I lost. Painfully.”

Wisp found it in his lungs to gather the winds into his belly, laughing and giggling, Y/N was afraid he was screaming shakily out of pain. No sting of worry nor startle ceased the beating of her heart as she watched him hunch over, ragged and gasping.

Y/N remembered that day well; the sun was warm and glowing. The breeze carried stray petals from the gardens that left a fragrant impression in the air that whole season. The waters were cool and refreshing, neither raging nor fogged by a snowblight’s harsh wind or a sunblight’s steamy humidity.

They played, Y/N remembered, they played all day until the sun melted into the horizon. She didn’t think she even had the time to admire the night sky.

_Where did those days go?_

“Alright, you mongrels! Wrap it up! We’ve gotta be back in time for supper or your mother will have my head on a spike!”

Y/N began to flail her arms out to her screeching and laughing siblings, climbing over each other, rolling in pits of mud and patches of wet grass. Cervantes twirled and danced as he held a singing Florentine on his back, laughing with Morok who couldn’t handle his own weight against his aching and trembling limbs that tried to pull himself on a nearby tree. Demetrius encouraged him as he leapt from the first branch his fingers grazed against.

And, _plop!_

Morok fell headfirst in a pile of mud, where Yven hollered and wailed at her brother, hitting and chasing, fussing and gallant. Neither of them paid a passing glance to the flocks of wyverns irritable hissing from under the canopies of the dripping trees.

What unfolded before Y/N’s eyes was the makings of precious childhood memories. Not even as the eldest did she have the dignity nor heart to deny such a touching scene. Not even the moments of holding them as infants were nearly as moving. She didn’t have many memories of her own childhood, in fact. Words of diplomacy, whispers of lectures were all drilled into her head before she even reached the time, trained and disciplined. It was a shame, however, to move onto the next hour, where the setting sun was calling them home. 

She desperately wished, deeply and _painfully_ , for her siblings to keep making memories like this for as long as they lived.

As Y/N gathered the discarded training-swords that were left in the mud, there was a chill running across the nape of her neck. Unlike the cold of the storm that was beginning to disperse with a heavy whip of air, there was a burning spot across her skin that bore into her—like _eyes_.

Turning, Y/N peered into the light of the woods, where the laughter of her siblings were behind her. There was nothing dark that contrasted with these ashen trees, nothing particularly out of the ordinary. 

There was nothing there, but the lingering feeling of eyes on her back.

『✭』

  


“Nervous?” 

Natasha wasn’t startled by Tony’s voice booming the deafening and ringing silence in her ears, but felt the comfort of a kindred presence lingering by her. She found it pleasant, even if it was someone such as Tony who was standing by the open shelf compartments, watching expectantly for the spy to stop scrubbing polish along the blades of her knives. The damp microfiber cloth in her hands stained her fingers and palms with the scent of alcohol, musk and strong, Natasha hadn’t even realized the faint fuzziness in her head until she looked around the room—observing her surroundings.

“Not at all,” Natasha cooly replied, “Surprisingly, I’m not even fazed.”

“I wish I had your talent,” Tony sighed with a smile, pulling out a checkered crate full of tattered blueprints, files, and stacks-on-stacks of documentation, “What’s it called? _Bravery_ or _lack of empathy?_ ”

Natasha threw her head at his directions, lips curled so slightly, Tony figured he was looking at the Russian knock-off of the _Mona Lisa_. Although, he would’ve figured _Leonardo Da Vinc_ i or, in this case, _Valentin Serov_ , should have captured much more of her smile than that menacing glare she was sending him. Neither beauty nor heart-wrenching fear came to his mind—like her, supposedly.

“I’d call it being _cold-blooded_.”

“Whatever, Romanoff. Hey, make sure to pack an extra trash-bag in case Rogers pukes onboard. The guy’s over eighty and getting closer to drinking prunes every night.”

Natasha scoffed airily, watching Tony root through the deep crate, papers shuffling and being hung over the ledges. 

“He’s old. Not senile.” Natasha reminded.

“Not yet.” Tony shot back, looking up at her with a trying smirk.

_How can he stand there?_ Natasha asked herself, the narrowed wrinkles under her eyes tightening as she watched him closer. _How can he stand there and act like that when he’s so troubled on the inside?_

Such words should never reach another one’s ears. It was a form of compassion, what semblance of humanity Natasha had left in her life. As if it was newfound, Romanoff could and would never let her kindness go awry. Spending time with these people, those who are labeled as heroes to the public, but coworkers in her eyes, reawakened something that Natasha didn’t want to let go.

She didn’t want to hurt anyone anymore.

“Do I look that good from behind?” Tony asked slyly as he had caught wind of someone’s eyes burning into his back. He couldn’t very well handle the feeling of reassuring safety, especially in the workplace. For the first time, he thanked his paranoia.

“S’ not that,” Natasha murmured with a faint smile, “I just…I just wanted to ask if you’re really okay with going through this. After Loki, after New York…are you sure you’re ready to experience something like this again?”

“Something new, you mean,” Tony sighed, “I’m doing this for Earth, don’t forget. It’s not like I’m doing this for the empty space in my chest, or my metal heart, or whatever. Protecting Earth…is my job. And whoever is out there…”

Tony gave Natasha a genuine grin. 

“They better put up one hell of a fight against the Avengers.”

Tony had given every last page of his reports to the pager that JARVIS had summoned an hour ago. Admittedly, he didn’t want to keep the man waiting, but it was enough for Tony who had to gather himself before facing anyone. The dreaded feeling hung over his head like a dark cloud, the gloom seemed to show even from out of his skin—he was only human, after all.

Nick Fury had given him strict instructions that he should promptly head down to the main sub-levels, where the Abeona was stationed—waiting for the presence of the three Avengers. Nick was adamant that they would use the Triskelion as their base of operations, unlike the Avengers Tower that was currently under construction. To say it wouldn’t have been safe would have been a lie, according to Tony, who had enough profit to shut the mouths of state officials who were afraid of their property being destroyed.

Tony then assumed that Nick wanted to add this project to boost his rep. Hell, he would have done the same.

Steve remained in the main panel, supervising the control essentials that were necessary security protocols for the mission. He was wary of taking this part of the task, but didn’t do much to complain. He had been present for many of Howard Stark’s briefings, the amount of information he actually absorbed remained the same. 

“Listen, Mister Rogers, I don’t mean to impose,” One of the head tech workers began, prompting Steve to take a long and low inhale through his nose, “But I think Miss Romanoff would be…better at taking care of these protocols. I-I don’t mean to offend you—“

“— _It’s fine_ ,” Steve cut in, nodding his head dismissively, “Trust me, it wouldn’t have been my first call to take this job in anyway, I would’ve much rather liked to have taken down the bastards in the _Manhattan_ sewers.”

There was a small laugh wafting in Steve’s ears, nearly breaking his eyeline away from the projection monitor of the Abeona that was awaiting in the main hub, its nose pointing to the sky—their mission.

“I’m sure they would’ve appreciated your company, too. Not… _whoever_ is out there.”

Steve turned to the tech worker, seeing in his hand, a small remote device that had a nozzle that blinked green. Surely, this piece of technology was more than it appeared to be, as Steve had learned in the recent years. He was just hoping he wouldn’t have to find out.

“In any case, you should take this.”

“What is it?” Steve took the device carefully, letting it rest flatly in his palm.

“This is the only real protocol you have to worry about. If anything…too drastic happens out there, if the ship is overrun with any alien bastards, this will blow it up.”

Steve threw his eyebrows up, rolling the device carefully that had been captured between his fingers. He pointed a finger at the ship, astounded as he studied the entirety of the Abeona—already predicting the massive size of the explosion the device could trigger.

Oh, yeah. He _definitely_ doesn’t want to find out.

“You’re saying _this_ little thing can blow up a ship like _that?_ ” 

The tech worker, Moore, nodded with slumped shoulders, a dissatisfied grin curling against his mouth.

“Director Nick Fury wanted absolute control over the safety of you guys. There are pods inside that can take all three of you back to Earth, but the exterior will explode. We’re just taking you to use this if it’s absolutely necessary.”

Steve took a brief moment before nodding, putting the piece in a small leather compartment attached to his belt, making sure he didn’t push any of the buttons.

_God, the twenty-first century was_ _terrifying_ _._

『✭』

  


Y/N and her siblings were met with their parents as soon as they had entered the palace.

_“I cannot believe this.”_

Amwren Ramses breathed disappointedly as he stared down at his mud-covered, minorly-injured, and rain-soaked children. The beaming smiles were not at all powerful enough to fight back the raging and wrathful darkness filling his head, obscuring his eyes to make his vision go red. The sigh that emptied from his lungs went through his teeth with a long hiss, long enough as it deflated those same smiles on his children as they watched their father crumple with his head in his hands.

“We’re sorry, father,” Wisp mumbled quietly, “We weren’t exactly keeping track of time.”

“It seems you weren’t keeping track of the mud on your clothes either.” Gardenia chided from aside, arms-crossed and huffing at the sight of the golden dynasty. _Copper_ , in this case.

“I take the full responsibility and blame here, father,” Y/N began, her voice croaking from her dry throat, “Our outing didn’t exactly go as planned—“ 

“— _it went better!_ ” Morok suddenly interrupted, continuing to grin, “We won against Y/N!”

Y/N bit back a smile as Ramses and Gardenia looked up in bewilderment, staring among their children who appeared as if they were glowing with their very own pride.

“Well, congratulations,” Ramses cleared his throat, straightening the hem of his cloak, “Had you been here sooner to tell me that, I would have spared you from going to bed without dinner.”

The Skaraeith children’s expressions collectively dissolved into bitten cheeks, averted eyes, and flustered necks. It wasn’t long for Cervantes, the second son, to recover from his agitation, stuffing his hands behind his back, eyes drawn to his own feet.

“Well, to be fair, we could’ve been back in time if it wasn’t for Morok deciding to dance—“

All of a sudden, Cervantes made a guttural sound that gained everyone’s eyes. As they all turned their heads, the visage of Cervantes hunched over, clutching his stomach, while Morok’s elbow was quickly pulled away back into his side, brought some sighs and muffled laughters behind hands. The fire in the eldest son’s eyes was raging as he glared down at this brother who was too busy trying not to die from his stomach pains.

“Please, stop talking before you get us into more trouble.” Morok hissed from the innards of his throat, turning quickly to flash a bright smile at his family. 

They looked hopefully to their eldest sister, whose head spun such overworked cogwheels, thinking of a way to appease her father further.

“Father, please,” Y/N began with an exasperated huff, “They do deserve something for their winnings today. I’ll gladly take another week with the counsel if that’s all it took. Just…don’t punish them.”

In that lingering silence, Y/N was fearful of her father’s mercy. The very mercy that the most humblest and compassionate man on Amis had to spare for his kingdom could be nonexistent to enemies—full of wrath and spite that as a witness, Y/N had difficulty sleeping. Memories of deeds going unpunished made Y/N’s skin be ridden with gooseflesh as she thought about her siblings and their unguided punctuality.

_Will he deprive them from their favorite meals for a century?_

_Will he pit them against the Atralis commanders against regular morning training?_

_Will he send them to the stables and make them sleep there for a month?_

“I’ll let them go.” Ramses uttered, narrowing his darkened eyes at Y/N who stiffened from his response, doubtful of her own ears.

“ _Pardon?_ ” Her voice came out, meek and wavering.

“I’ll let them go for just once, despite this evening being important. Just this once. If this happens again, I will take serious measures into their own schedules. Is that understood?”

_“Yes, my King.”_ The Skaraeith children bowed before their father, who nodded, sending them off with a dismissing hand. Gardenia had removed herself from her husband’s side, taking Wisp’s hand as he began to wave at the group.

“Go, get cleaned up, you runts.” Ramses sneered with a trying smirk, watching his children scatter in numerous directions to their quarters, skipping and laughing throughout the empty halls, carried by the wind of the night.

Y/N watched all of them, bidding farewell, before turning slowly with a sly grin at her father, leaning forward to poke at his side. The protruding, ivory thorns that embroidered her father’s vambraces nearly sliced her arm had she not moved them in time. Ramses was attempting to wave off the formality that was shared so easily among them. But, of course, that was not so easy. Despite the previous display of parental duties, albeit, strict ones, Y/N couldn’t help but snicker and find the outcome amusing. In her eyes that sparkled, she could see her father was very much the same as her.

“What a kind father we have,” Y/N teased with a laugh, ignoring Ramses pointed glare. “How lucky we are to be blessed by your mercy.”

“Will you be silent? Just this once?” Ramses rolled his eyes with a sigh, sneering at his eldest daughter and laughed, “And you will not spend your time with the counsel. Meister Mavenpoor had already seen to it that he will be leading in my stead.”

Y/N tilted her head questioningly, “What will I do then?”

Ramses glanced at Y/N before sighing, his head bowed down deeply.

“Tonight was the anniversary of our alliance with the Norrathians since the Second Age. We invited the Saeles folk for dinner, which you missed.”

“I thought we agreed that political dinners would save us from certain _incidents_.”

A sly grin curled upon Y/N’s mouth, where she dared to show her father such part of her vulgar humor. Unfortunately, though, she did not receive the reaction she wanted. It was surprising even, as Y/N could remember countless times she embarrassed someone or something in those dinners. Her father wasn’t tolerant of her behavior, and her mother was no different.

Y/N wondered what she did to have Ramses remain stoic.

“Yes, I remember that well. But you came to be the highlight of our conversation.”

“Oh? Was I?” Y/N inquired, raising her brows as she folded another hand over her father’s arm, “A shame, I would’ve rather enjoyed basking in all that attention.”

Ramses isn’t at all impressed by the sarcasm that was laced in her words.

“The Saeles family wouldn’t have tolerated such humor, Y/N. You know that. Or do you not remember their reputations in the East?”

“Ah, I remember now,” Y/N breathed as her eyes drifted upwards, “Head patriarch, Overon and his wife, Riva…they have two children. It was one of the honors for Marinella’s birth…and I heard of their son, Cyreus’s revolution at the Nyrriean islands. An impressive lancer.”

Ramses gathered a breath before turning to Y/N.

_“He is to be your husband.”_

Then, something fierce struck Y/N like lightning.

  


『✭』

  


The idea of a husband is not a pleasant thought to Y/N. To settle down from the unwavering and untamed seas of life that remained so open for her as a youth was heart wrenching. The last thing that Y/N needed within the remainder of her limited, royal life was a man to bind her to empty promises and words hollow of love. No real meaning came to the idea of a marriage ceremony, whereas other girls within the Echealion, high maidens and little girls would dream of daily life. But Y/N dreaded the fruits of her imagination.

Y/N’s hands should never be chained by a ring. 

“He’s lost his mind,” Y/N scoffed to herself, springing up from her unmade bedside, “He’s completely delusional. He’s insane if he thinks I’m going to—“

A shallow breath reminds Y/N of her thumping heart. The beating is hard against her chest, the nonexistent butterflies aren’t spewing from her stomach and out of her mouth quite yet. She can’t feel the tender release of denial as she thinks how she could possibly persuade her father not to be married.

When her father told her of the possibility of the young Saeles son being her potential groom, any word that manifested from her wild fighting-spirit was gone. The shock was merely too great, as pitiful as that was. Y/N did nothing as she listened to her father’s lecture, his hope for her and Amis.

All the while, Y/N was already planning how to flee the planet.

A possibility blooms like a rose above a nest of thorny-vines, a humming glimpse of light that brings her mind at a sudden ease. Y/N dwells on the concept; children—what if she had children? The princess isn’t so quick to snap away the feeling, holding her arms close to herself as if she was holding someone—small and _hers_.

_Could this be a blessing in disguise?_

“Impossible!” 

The half-blood is astounded by the idea that her thoughts were so powerful, she would act so physically. Y/N feels the surge of cold and terror expelled from her boiling veins, an unnatural strength that was tired and spirited thrashed outwards, where white lingers in her vision.

Her eyes are taken by the tiles on the floor, protruding with spikes of ice where Y/N stood in the middle. A cold feeling brushes against her ankles, sending an unpleasant chill quaking in her wobbling knees. She doesn’t feel an ounce of fear, but worry—concern of the dream that never came true yet.

Y/N holds herself close, lowering to her knees to beg to the dying gods, protective and weak.

“What am I going to do?”

_“You could sleep on it, for one.”_

Y/N threw her eyes upward, wondering if the gods had spoken their divine wisdom that commanded her to sleep. The solution, in that moment, seemed like a blessing—to slumber and ignore. However, as she saw Krow crouched in front of her with a beaming smile, Y/N concluded the gods were cruel and merciless. 

“Or you can talk to me about it while we go to the gardens together…would you like that instead?”

A beat of warm silence passed between them, lingering in the calm air. The thought of the night sky, flowers, and the company of each other did seem like a pleasant change of scenery. Y/N basked in that calming atmosphere herself, taken and drifting in ease as there was another presence in front of her, offering guidance and support.

She didn’t appreciate that enough, Y/N had begun to think, taking her actions into sincerity as she lifted her arms—waiting for him to carry her in his own.

Krow, on the other hand, endeared the signaled want. Nonverbal responses weren’t unfamiliar, however, they were not ideal. The unspoken desire of wanting to be held was no exception, no matter how much Krow’s heart fluttered in his chest. As he lifted her from the ground, curling his arms under her hips to support her weight, he began his journey from her room to their sanctuary. Krow was not at all bothered by Y/N, who remained limp, occasionally swinging her dangling legs near his sides.

Instantly, Y/N took in all the warmth he had to give, her mind nearly going blank with such comfort. Krow as well, made sure to keep his steps small and slow, thankful to the gods that the night had only just begun.

They were too familiar with each other, one would say. They are too intimate, too informal. Yet, neither of the two contrasting beings cared for the opinions of such pesky lowlives. They had known each other for far too long, and knew that they could very well know each other in the next life. Y/N’s father, being who he was, did not bat an eye to such contact, but rather encouraged it. Y/N’s stepmother, on the other hand, was often appalled.

It was better to dwell painfully with another, while to dwell alone was painful. 

“So,” Krow began with a raised brow, “What troubles you today?”

Y/N narrowed her fluttering eyes, biting at her thumb with a smile, “Today? What’s that supposed to mean? What bothered me yesterday?”

“You told me yesterday you were bothered by the azaleas growing too close near the hydrangeas. The day before that, you said that you hated the way Gardenia called you for dinner last. And the day before that—“

“—Yeah, okay. I get it!” Y/N clamped a hand around Krow’s grinning mouth, ignoring his muffled hums, “Am I really that vexing, or is it just that you’ve grown tolerant of me? Do I not complain enough?”

“You complain plenty. But that doesn’t mean I’m bothered by it.” 

Along the way, Krow was mindful of the prying eyes that might have been awaiting around every corner and the ends of corridors. The guards at their posts had been mid-way through their duties that night, where Krow was especially cautious. He had never forgotten of Gardenia’s words, fearful enough that he should be caught in his current predicament; the queen would be so outraged he would live the rest of his days in the cells.

The stone walls were not as thick as they were promised to be as they trudged through the exiting passage way, growing archaic with wild moss and posies that sprung their roots from the nearby patches of wet dirt. He could hear the echoes of mindless conversation from the passing nobles who ventured here, too. It was best to not be seen by anyone entirely.

Where they were finally welcomed to the canopy under the night sky, Krow felt the breath of relief leave him as he basked in the cold air. The chill of snowblight was beginning, his skin ridden with gooseflesh with the fragrance of flowers drifting to his nose. Y/N felt no colder in his arms that shifted to readjust her weight. To be so close was already a given virtue, with Krow feeling the same as he held her tight.

_This_ —this was their sanctuary. Wildflowers and hybrid blossoms, small waterfalls and white-pebbled grounds for the two to pay homage to.

Y/N felt the wind’s kiss on her neck, curling against Krow closer who made his way across the first stone path, illuminated by glowing insects, the chattering of fauna, and the light of the stars as their guide. His eyes were kept forward, but occasionally shifted by the stray hairs that blew gently from Y/N’s head, who did her best to keep it from tickling his cheeks.

“If it’s Gardenia again, I wouldn’t be surprised.” Krow hummed, shrugging his shoulders.

“No, actually,” Y/N murmured quietly against his neck, “It’s my father.”

A long and droning sound from Krow’s chest reached Y/N’s ears, its tone high, as if faintly surprised.

“Your father?” Krow questioned with pointed brows, beginning to nod slowly, “Did he do something?”

Y/N swallowed dryly, beginning to switch the sides of her grinding jaw, suddenly stiff in his hold. Partially, Y/N did not want to express her honesty. There was something holding her back—something near primal and diplomatic. To tell such things to a person like Krow, she was afraid of her words serving her more resentment than comfort. She had lived so long with him, she was fearful of the change that would pull her out of her comfortable life.

She didn’t want to lose anyone—especially him.

“Don’t tell me he wants you to lead in another war.” Krow muttered venomously, almost shocking Y/N out of his arms.

“What? No, Krow, don’t be ridiculous. He just…” Y/N breathes slowly, where Krow stops walking and rears his head back expectantly.

Green stars are alive in his eyes, Y/N sees, and it’s hard to look away from them. She can’t at all hide her truths after all. He is incredibly ethereal, this time. Y/N ponders briefly if she was talking to another Amisian, or pouring a confession to a humble god. She wanted to weep, for an instant, but was moved by the thrumming in her aching chest.

“ _Just_ …” Krow drawls, the corners of his lips dipping, fearful of any harm that he was unaware of.

“He just…” Y/N steadies herself in his arms, letting out a heated huff, “He…he just…he just wants to marry me off. He wants me to settle down and reclaim what dignity I have left. It’s—It’s not fair.”

Despite her own brewing anger, Krow feels much worse—a fire beginning to burn inside his chest, spreading throughout every inch of his flesh, the scars of his past, and every thought he has of Y/N. It licks up the entirety of his arms, where he almost drops Y/N, who sends him a worried look as he is frozen between responding to her and staying silent. His fingertips are trembling, curling to clutch the sides of her thighs tighter, where she feels the increasing and pinching pressure.

As Y/N hurriedly pries open her mouth, Krow already speaks in a hushed tone.

“What did you say to him?”

Y/N stills at his tone; low and as dark as the night. Quietly, Y/N answers.

“I didn’t say anything to him. I don’t want to marry.”

Y/N gathers a breath, her arms sliding upward to capture Krow’s head, nestling her cheek at the tops of his dark and feathery hair. Krow feels another wave of warmth, impactful enough to halt his footsteps for a second, before resuming their journey.

“He wants me to marry Cyreus Saeles, the Slaver Prince. He’s dashing, but not quite my type.”

“You have a type?” Krow muses with a trying smirk, “Why wouldn’t you marry him? From what I heard, you two are very much alike.”

“That’s the problem,” Y/N sighs, “I can’t even put up with myself. What makes you think I’d marry him?”

There’s a relief that sears into Krow, who would deny such truth to protect himself. The feeling is enough to still his hammering heart, but does nothing to ease his mind of the potential husband that would take Y/N’s dreams away. Krow had no right, not by birth, not by rank, to secure her freedom—but as a friend, Krow would do anything to keep her happy. 

It frightened him that such duties could be taken away so easily.

He kept his focus, where it sharpens as he becomes aware of his surroundings. In front of him is another path that stretches away from the second ring of the gardens. The path, instead of stone, are various flattened rocks that are aligned around a body of water—the lake of the first ring. He trudges forward, careful not to step into the water and be swept away by the passing currents.

He doesn’t think much of caution, nor his steps as he encounters a marble gazebo, the rotunda of the stained glass casting such iridescent lights that shine flakes against their skin. The tall, white pillars are ridden with vines and moss, sprouting small and rare flowers that reach close to the bank of the structure, where thick water plants settle close to the marble.

Krow settles Y/N gently on the stray velvet cushions, carding his fingers through her hair as she nestles near him, close to his chest as he takes his own spot. He breaths in the chill that wafts through his nose, potent of the nectar of aquatic flowers and the scent of the lake. Y/N is finally calm, finding it hard why she was so upset in the first place.

For a moment, Y/N is taken by the earlier events that day, feeling a swell of pride that blooms in her chest. She remembers her sibling’s first victory against her, knowing fully that this will not be their last. Y/N can already imagine their future successes, not only against her, but in their own lives. 

Y/N, however, remembers something that sends a nervous chill down her spine, turning her head to Krow who continues to stare at the patterns of the colorful stained glass above.

“Krow?” Y/N calls, hearing a low, expectant hum in response

“Were you…Were you with us during the outing this morning?”

Krow gives her a furrowed look, frowning. He laments bitterly of his time with the Queen, where her chilling warning echoes through his head.

“No, I wasn’t.” Krow breathed lowly, flattening his palms on her back, “Why do you ask?”

Y/N thinks back, thinking of the shadow she saw in the woods before she was pursued by Morok.

She remembers its presence; chilling and watching. Something bad crawled over Y/N’s skin, another feeling of being watched had provoked Y/N’s legs to stand, slipping out of Krow’s arms who became concerned.

“Y/N? What is it? What’s wrong?”

She doesn’t know. Not yet, at least.

  


『✭』

  


Steve, Natasha, and Tony almost step into the Abeona hand-in-hand.

However, Tony wasn’t sentimental as he practically stormed through the curved mouth of the craft, enveloped in darkness where the remaining two Avengers spared a glance at each other, a presence of hesitance hanging over their heads.

“I’m not sure about this.” Natasha drawls, where Steve gives a look of agreement.

“Don’t need to tell me twice. I’m getting flashbacks of the Valkyrie back in forty-five.”

Natasha lets out a small whine, beginning to step towards the spacecraft with puffed cheeks.

“Save the war-stories for the plane-ride, old geezer. That way I can snooze much easier.”

Tony is hasty as he checks out the surveillance systems that portray their path into the stars. He is skeptical of the holographic projection, depicting only a glowing blue, spherical orb that is marked as ‘ _destination_ ’ in red letters, imagining that their objective is actually chunks of rocks and broken wastelands. Smartly, Tony keeps his mouth shut in its hinges as he turns to Steve and Natasha.

They dumped their duffle-bags full of weaponry and equipment on the floor, later stuffing them into compartment shelves where Tony was adamant on keeping clear just so he could find room somewhere to stash his loafers. 

“Alright, people,” Tony began as he jabbed his thumb into the comms, “We are officially two minutes before we break bread with alien lifeforms, who _hopefully_ don’t kill us. Can you hear us, Nick?”

_“Loud and clear,”_ Came Nick Fury’s voice that was buzzing through static, _“Now, stay the hell off the comms unless you have an issue with the controls.”_

There was an air of electricity that surged through the space within the ship. Tony was the last to feel the emergence, as he had practically breathed such an atmosphere for all of his life. Meanwhile, Natasha and Steve found it harder to focus as it came with a mechanical hum—they were beginning to move.

Natasha held her breath as she eyed out one of the monitors near the pilot’s seat. It was the display of the Abeona in its station, where multiple shadows, shaped like people, could be seen scattered around at a great distance. It was the external controls perspective—where they had begun to open the circular skylight above the nose of the ship.

The platform that carried the craft was beginning to slide upwards, where the silo-shaped interior of the facility was beginning to disappear out of view. The higher they were carried from the facility, the more Tony and Steve felt the feeling of dread. _There was no going back, was there?_

_“Alright, everyone,”_ Nick’s voice entered through the comms again, _“We’re gonna take this nice and slow. Stark, activate the first ring thrusters and get me a visual of the Abeona’s tip point.”_

Tony had begun working his way through the panel, activating the sequences where, at the lowest surface of the bottom of the ship, opened a cylindrical hatch that revealed miniature thrusters, already sputtering out spits of flames and sparks. Smoke had rained down the silo, where the glass on the other side of the control room was enveloped in thick gray.

“Get me exterior eyes.” Nick commanded a nearby tech worker, where Maria Hill had been standing at his side, biting anxiously at her lip.

Natasha braced herself as she felt the soles of her feet quake on the metal plating. She was uncomfortable with the powerful vibrations that rumbled throughout the entire ship, holding her arms together for comfort as she felt her skin ride with goosebumps. She was beginning to feel the pressure weigh her down, the sheen of sweat glistening on her forehead.

A low rumbling sound gained Steve’s eyes, who wasn’t any different than Natasha.

“You okay?” He asked loudly, almost smiling.

“After this is over, I am going to _kill_ Fury!” Natasha shouts, ignoring Steve’s laugh.

“Yeah? Well, get in line!” Tony chides aloud from across the ship, turning a nozzle that ignites the second ring of engines, now guiding the ship into flight.

Nick Fury watches impatiently as the Abeona is lifted from the platform, beginning to rocket its way off of Earth’s surface and into the clouds where his requested exterior visuals are not able to follow. What the ground forces are left with is a heat signature, as many technicians scurry to keep track of the spacecraft, Nick Fury feels that he has the opportunity to finally relax. Unlike Maria Hill, who waits until the silo opening is shut closed and is left with the dark platform settling back down again.

“You think they’re gonna be okay?” She questions with a furrowed expression.

Nick is hesitant, turning away from Maria who is left in the darkness.

“As long as they don’t do something stupid.”

_“Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached for the stars.”_

  


『✭』

  


“Y/N, what are we doing here? We should get back before someone sees us!”

Y/N ignores Krow who is caught in a thick shrub of vines, pursuing onward to a patch of barren land, the moistened dirt beneath the soles of her boots indicate that this was the spot she and her siblings were in that early, stormy morning. Her memory was impeccable, eyes feral and keen, darting around various points of scenery within the White Hollow woods, determined to find that shadow again.

There was something against her, again. The burn of eyes at her neck—watching, waiting. 

And yet, Y/N doesn’t feel her fighting spirit yelling at her to run back to the palace, where it reassures her safety, assuring her that there would be another day to seize if she just turned back now. No, there was nothing there but the call of fear—caution, luring her in.

“Have you forgotten who you’re speaking to?” Y/N inquires loudly, sparing a glance at Krow who manages to shove his way through the bushes, crouched and alert to the low tone of her voice.

Stunned, Krow is quick to hold his tongue.

It was a rare occurrence for Y/N to speak to him with such diplomacy; coldness. That particular tone was only meant for those Y/N did not like. Enemies or allies, but never friends. Never him. In some selfish way, Krow was offended. He found that no number of years of their friendship would do him justice against Y/N’s words that seemed to leave her lips so easily. Krow didn’t fathom, couldn’t imagine, what that question tasted like after it left her mouth.

_Was it as fresh as ice-chips? Or was it sour like unripened fruit?_ He wanted to know.

“No one is going to find us here,” Y/N assures, her footwork carrying her to a rough patch of land, “Besides, even if anyone did, they wouldn’t be able to do too much of anything.”

Krow pushes himself up on his hands, dusting away the dirt that stained his palms and knees. Her tone is notably softer now, but Krow decides it was best to stay at a distance. He stares narrowly between the shadows of pale trees, trying to find the unordinary source that beckoned Y/N into curiosity. Though, he heard nothing interesting of the sort, as he only listened to the sound of the rustling wind.

Y/N runs a hand through her hair, eyes peering deeper into the darkness.

“I don’t understand. There was _someone_ here, I _wasn’t_ imagining it.” 

“Listen, Y/N, we should just go. I’m not saying you didn’t see anything, but maybe that shadow was just Wisp watching from afar. You did say—“

“— _Quiet_.” Y/N snaps, her head veering as she sees something glistening in the darkness, something small that laid between thick blades of grass. 

Krow watches, wordless now, as Y/N dips her body closer to the ground, her footwork slow and careful as she divots a hand into a shrub. Krow nearly stands on his toes as he sees something gold between Y/N’s fingers, tight within the constricts of the leather gloves around hands, carefully letting the gold trinket roll into the palm of her hand. The object makes a small, hollow chime as it hits one of Y/N’s rings, where Krow realizes its shape.

“Is that…”

_“It’s a Terrik hound sigil.”_

Y/N traced her thumb along the canine-fanged jaw of the pendant, glowering at the form of the snarling beast. The half-blood never found them as good pets, herself. _Terrik_ _hounds_ were foul, four-eyed mutts, roaming the sandy wastelands of the Irieth dunes. They were ravenous dogs that fed on the living or the dead. The soldiers who lived in such free cities, who bore pendants, just like this one, were called _Sand Hounds_ , while mercenaries for hire who had them were infamously named the _Desolate Dogs_. Y/N never found the pleasure in either of their presences.

“What’s an Irieth doing out here? Is that a _Dog_ sigil or a _Hound_ sigil? Gods, it’s hard to tell these days.”

“ _Dog_. If it was a _Hound_ , it wouldn’t show teeth,” Y/N cursed through her teeth, “A mercenary was spying on us. I knew someone was watching.”

Krow could feel the force of the winds beginning to grow stronger, whipping through his hair, groaning and ominous. The chills that ran across his bare skin that was left unprotected at his neck were nothing compared to the fear that raced down his spine, as if setting his very skin aflame. There was nothing good that could come out of the company of Desolate Dogs. Let alone mercenaries.

“Y/N. Y/N, we should leave. We should leave before—“

“—Krow, _just_ ,” Y/N is standing tall now, rolling her head across her shoulders to throw him a disgruntled glare, “Head back to the palace. I don’t want you out here where it’s not safe. If the mercenary is still out there—“

“—That’s _exactly_ my point, Y/N, they could still be out there!” Krow argued loudly, prompting Y/N to sigh, gripping the bridge of her nose, “I am not leaving you out here all alone. Not when there’s a potential lunatic roaming these woods who might want to sell your head for money! Not a chance.”

Y/N could feel something stirring within her, seizing the neurons that shot within her legs, urging her to take a hard step forward. Under her boots, under her footsteps felt like she was leaving a blazing trail, where her anger practically singed off of her skin. She had heard all of this before, too many times. 

_But why was this time different? Why now was she beginning to bite back?_

“ _Krow_ —“

The sound of rustling silenced Y/N.

Puffs of air that left Krow’s lips seemed to be the only trace of movement within Y/N’s peripheral. Her eyes were sharply narrowed, darting in every other direction and behind her to find the source of the unnatural and dangerously close noise coming from one of the shrubs. They weren’t tall, luckily, meaning that their supposed mercenary was keeping themselves on a low profile.

_They won’t have much leg room to make a run for it in such proximity_ , Y/N notes, a cold resurgence crawling up the veins in her arms, collecting and awaiting at her fingertips.

_Total and complete control_ , Y/N reminds herself as she takes a slow breath, beginning to become spatially aware of her surroundings within the moisture of the dampened atmosphere around them. Any presence within a certain radius would never be able to escape Y/N’s clutches.

“Y/N,” Krow whispers, his footsteps being drawn back from behind him, “We need to go.”

Y/N doesn’t object, and nor does she agree. The half-blood merely waits for an opening as the winds around them begin to settle down. The moaning voices that move along with her still and calm breaths are carried into the sky, where Y/N ultimately takes a step—clasping her hands.

Krow acts on instinct; dropping to the ground on his stomach, saving himself from the shockwave that surges throughout the woods, blowing from Y/N’s body who remains firm and standing. Her hands are clasped together, and Krow feels ashamed that he couldn’t hear the sound of her skin clapping first. Had he still been standing, Y/N might have easily knocked his head clean off his shoulders.

For the first time in this century, Krow is distraught that he shouldn’t be so close.

A sound is heard north of them. Krow sees a shadow being thwarted from the force of Y/N’s shockwave, the concentrated ring of moisture throwing them against the nearby tree where the two wince at the crackling impact. Y/N bolts from her spot, diving for their assailant who groans and turns over on their side, holding an oozing wound.

Showing some semblance of mercy, Krow sees that Y/N doesn’t grip them just yet.

“Found you,” Y/N breathes angrily, “I was beginning to think you _dogs_ outran me.”

The figure tosses their back up against the tree, their dripping hand clutches the underside of their forearm that limps across their abdomen.

_“I—“_

_“—Save it,”_

Krow holds his breath as Y/N lifts her knee, pressing her heel against the figure’s throat while unclasping a bladed weapon from her belt, leveling the tip to their eye.

“I only want to hear the bounty you were offered in return for my head. How much were you promised, mercenary?”

The figure breathes raggedly and fiercely as they try not to move under the weight of Y/N’s crushing pressure. There was no great outcome if the figure tried to move in a little to get comfortable, not when there was a dagger centimeters away from carving out their eye.

“ _Nothing_ ,” A male’s voice spat quickly, “Nothing. I was offered nothing.”

“Not money then,” Y/N clicks her tongue, “What was it then? Freedom? Revenge?”

The mercenary said nothing, trembling and panting. The fear in his eyes stirred something familiar within Y/N, a feeling that she did not look upon kindly as she gripped the dagger in her hand tighter. The curl of her fingers around the hilt of the weapon was not so fluid as it was back then, back on all of those other times when she had to beat someone for information. 

Y/N needed to remind herself that she wasn’t that kind of person anymore.

She didn’t want to look into the faces of fear any longer.

Especially not from Krow, who had shared the same face as Y/N’s capture, a hand gripping the tender flesh of her shoulder, shaking and pleading. Krow didn’t want to see any more bloodshed, and he was sure Y/N, who lowered her dagger, that she was tired of fighting, too.

No, Y/N was different now.


	7. Sand Whispers「7」

## 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐃𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐨𝐫 𝐋𝐚𝐩𝐝𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐬?

The western Irie dunes were said to be formed by the bitterness of the old gods—the dryness of their malice forming together in swift and unforgiving forms. Hot, desolate, and vast. Those ancient beings, titans among the Amisians, have left the dunes a wasteland, where only those who were accustomed to the sun’s harshest lights could continue to dwell and thrive— _Irieth Amisians._

Unfortunately, Y/N Skaraeith and Krow Vulnir were _not_ those beings. 

Sweat was beading down her brow, where she struggled to push her leg out one after the other, trudging through an endless valley of sand. Her garments were loose and damp with moisture, as Y/N couldn’t air out the stuffy heat that stuck to every inch of her skin. 

Krow did not appear any better. His forehead and neck were glistening with sweat, his cheeks and ears red and flushed as Krow heaved through. Even as his breaths were quiet, his frustrations were bursting in his legs as he kicked into the sands with each step. 

The dryness in Y/N’s throat was near to steaming, where her puffing breaths brought pity from the captured mercenary, who was bound by his wrists, making headway to _Dagan Domain._

This mercenary, of which Y/N had learned that his name was _Oryosi_ , hadn’t been the least bit bothered by the sun that nearly blinded and warmed his skin. As an Irieth, particularly named after _Oryos_ , the ancient third son of the ancestral head-clan leader, _Dagantu Qhyros_ , he did not feel the least bit of discomfort as they traveled through the wasteland deserts. The warmth of the sun was in his blood, more fiery than anyone else’s, where pride and power expelled through his bones. 

And yet, out of respect, the mercenary had accepted his defeat and chose to accompany Y/N and Krow for his punishment—as he knew that if he didn’t, Oryosi feared he would be faced with the wrath of King Amwren Ramses.

“Head farther north.” Oryosi directed the two behind him, yet earned a back-handed smack against his cheek.

“The more you talk, the hotter I get,” Krow spat lowly under his heated breaths, “ _Shut up_.”

“My apologies.” Oryosi mumbled before turning the other cheek, spitting a tooth into the sand.

Y/N gave a narrowed glare to Krow who had brushed past her shoulder, beginning to venture farther ahead to take, what she thought, was the unwanted advice from the mercenary in their capture. Even stubborn and trying to act cruel, Y/N could see the soft and desperate heart of his after all these years. Something twinged within her, too. Something that was soft and faltering.

Oryosi, as they both had learned, was unusually obedient to a bought spy. Even while they were still in the White Hollow, he had no such complaint spilling from his bruised lip as Krow struck him with a fist, demanding who hired him. However, he did not utter a word, where Y/N had only seen the glistening fright that swelled in the boy’s eyes. Although his nose or mouth did not have such a crinkle of distress, his eyes were alive with fear—as if he was moments away from death.

It was easier to travel here in the dunes to the Dagan domain. It was a promising lead to find out who hired him and wanted a spy sent for Y/N. As she couldn’t remember who she had wronged recently. Certainly, it wasn’t he mother as she wouldn’t keep such ways under wraps. And it wasn’t her father who was keeping her within close watch to make sure she wasn’t doing anything reckless; he would’ve made sure of that himself. 

All were but a mystery, neither chilling but scornful as the sun.

“When we get to head-clan leader, _Aruul Qhyros_ , I’ll see to it that your punishment isn’t worse than a month in their barracks.”

Oryosi, puzzled and bewildered, turned to capture the sight of Y/N giving him a crooked smile. 

“Spare me your pity,” Oryosi muttered, his head hung low, “I’ll gladly face any wrath that comes before me after failing such a simple task.”

Y/N sent him a faltering frown, watching as the twitch of his puffed cheeks graced his face.

“Irieth mercenaries…Us, _Desolate Dogs_ , are supposed to be exceptional in stealth. We’re supposed to be shadows, behind and _silent_. But…I was spotted as soon as I stepped into the field.”

Gathering a shuddering breath, Oryosi frowned into the back of his hand, brushing away the sand that freckled his cheeks.

“I’m a joke.”

“Enough of that. You’re not a joke, Oryosi.” Y/N affirmed with a low voice, sparking a puzzled reaction, “Maybe sometimes…we’re not meant for certain things. Even though we grow up in certain environments and are told how to do things…no matter how many days can pass by; you can still be something _more_ than that.”

Oryosi never takes his eyes away from Y/N as she shakes her head, tasseling the stray locks of hair that she tightens out of the way before squaring her shoulders—a look, an act of recollection that keeps her diplomacy intact as a prominent public figure. Even as Oryosi can detect what is under that steely veil, he is thankful for her strength.

_“Y/N!”_ Krow’s voice carries through the thin, heated air.

The two halt as they see Krow stop kicking his way through the sand, standing atop a distinctly high peak of a sanded valley, of which overlooked a distant civilization. Their saving grace, however, happened to be a nearby oasis just yards away from the entrance of the bazaar. The thin winds carry the music of people, fauna, and the rustling of tropical plants.

“Finally!” Came Y/N’s loud and enthused exclaim.

Y/N squeals with delight, gripping the rope that bounded Oryosi’s wrists tight and pulling him along to reach Krow. She shoved the rope in Krow’s fumbling hands, ignoring the pointed glare that is sent her way as she slides down the slope of the valley, laughing and eager.

Oryosi shrugs his shoulders as he watches Y/N trip over her own feet, running to the bazaar.

“She’s a strange one,” He mutters quietly, “I wonder what our children would look like if I took her as a bride.”

Krow sends Oryosi a nasty glare.

  
  


『✭』

  
  


Natasha feels the need to hold her breath every so often in case of the ship imploding to bits. On those occasions, Steve is efficient in reminding her that they were still safe and breathing by sending her a careful and reassuring glance. The puffed cheeks of the Widow brings a sense of humor to the super-soldier, who lets a smile creep along his mouth, eventually sending a look to Tony, who is spinning in circles on the pilot seat.

“What’s the matter, old man?” Tony asks as he keeps spinning, whereas Steve is surprised he was able to know he was staring at him so quickly, “Is just looking at me enough to make your stomach churn? Too bad. Nat didn’t pack an extra trash-bag for your puke.”

“Didn’t need it,” Steve rests his chin on his knuckles, raising his brows, “Looks to me though that you’re the one who’s gonna hurl.”

“Wouldn’t count on that. My body’s automatic. Since I’m wearing my _Gucci, Brixton leather, horse-bit loafers_ , I don’t need to worry about keeping it all in check.” Tony sends a confident smirk as he wiggles his toes through the comforts of his ungodly expensive shoes, emphasizing his point by patting his stomach.

By then, Tony could almost hear Steve’s heavy eye roll, where Rogers averts his attention to the nearby small, circular window. Beyond the glass was the darkness of the unknown, where specks of light glistened against his peripherals. The veil of the void was not yet lifted, and Steve was making sure to keep calm on his own as he flickered his eyes from space and to Natasha, who was licking her teeth and trying to avoid holding her breath again.

“So,” Steve began, bringing Natasha’s flittering attention, “What do you think we’ll be facing? You got an idea of what these aliens might look like?”

“Have you seen the movie _Predator yet_?” Natasha asked with pointed brows, arms folding to her chest, “Y’know, the big long-haired dudes with the face of an octopus that was run over by a buzz-dozer?”

Steve blinked widely before furrowing his brows in thought, “I really need to start a list.”

“I don’t think they’ll be _that_ ugly,” Tony chimed from afar, where they both sent him pointed looks, “I think they’ll look like this one film I rented in the eighties, these two chicks that looked like _Cheryl Ladd_ and _Jaclyn Smith_. They’d look human but when they do this thing with their hips, they get this _amazing_ —“

_“—Tony, no one wants to hear the details of the space porno you rented on one of your sad, lonely escapades you had in the eighties.”_

Natasha’s words were always a sure-fire guarantee to shut up Tony during one of his classical explicit jabberings. Unfortunately, for Steve, he was beginning to picture a close-estimate of the film Tony was describing, immediately sticking his tongue out with a look of disgust.

_“Ew, god.”_ Steve spat out distastefully, shaking his head before shoving a hand into his pocket, fishing out a pair of earbuds and an iPod that Tony gave to him for Christmas. 

_It’s Been a Long, Long Time_ begins to resound peacefully in his ears, where Steve curls against the cushions of the lounge, snug against the body warmth that is provided by his arms that hugged his chest. His breathing became still, were the worry and caution of his spirit dimmed and smoldering, eventually drifting off into a timeless and voiding sleep.

Natasha was envious of Steve’s adaptation to his environments, finding previously that they were all in the same boat just hours ago; no one could sleep, afraid of the walls that could close in, the danger of the outside where the literal void of space was just in their wake. _Yes, truly envious._ Natasha hugged her knees in close, rolling her head across her shoulders and against the back of the leather cushions.

It was always hard for Natasha to fall asleep, where the horrors of her past, torture, and the sins that she had stained against her blood-red hands haunted her peace relentlessly. With this newfound fear of space surrounding her, Natasha found it no easier than before. And yet, she found that it was much better than usual, quieter.

She dragged her eyes to Tony, who was sitting quietly on the pilot’s seat, watching the void behind the glass with still and faltering eyes. However, Natasha knew that with every fibre of her being, Tony was paralyzed with fear. She manifested her perceptiveness through her lingering fears, wanting nothing more than to comfort another who had the same problem.

At that moment, it was better to be a friend than a hero.

“Go to sleep, Nat,” Tony’s voice wavered through the metal, where the Widow didn’t even bother to stir, “I’m getting first watch. You need the sleep, anyway.”

“What about you?” Natasha muttered, a brow raising, “You’re on your fifth all-nighter. Don’t tell me not to sleep when you’re powering through one of Steve’s omelets and a double shot espresso.”

“Which is precisely why I can keep powering through,” Tony flashed her a crooked smile, “It’s _because_ it’s one of Steve’s omelets. And, it was a double shot espresso with whipped cream. I’ll be just fine.”

Natasha’s mouth slanted, curling downwards in a long motion.

“Whatever.”

It was no use. 

The only comfort that Tony was given, was the void of space in front of him.

  
  


『✭』

  
  


It was rare for someone from the Echealion to visit the Irieth domains, where the company of noblemen and women were often bringers of bad luck or wandering exiles. Rangers that lived in the outskirts of the Amisian citadel were the only passerby’s that made their rounds in the dunes. Even so, they rarely ever came to the bazaars. The presence of Y/N, Krow, and their captured mercenary, were the highlight of the Irieth, becoming a gossip piece that spread like wildfire.

The Irieth men were troubled with their lack of belongings, wondering if they were escaped captures of the poachers that often tormented the people. While the women merely talked them down based on their sweating and ragged appearance. Although Y/N knew better than to divulge herself into the opinions of others, she was beginning to feel a little irked by all the staring and prying eyes sent her ways as they walked through the bustling bazaar.

There were all sorts of vendors that served hanging meats, hearty fruits, thick and aromatic wines, garbs that were embroiled with traces of azurite, amber, and chunky jewelry. The music of the streets were rumbling through the sandstone homes that many were at least three-stories tall. Alleyways of these buildings were accompanied by domestic Volnan Felidaes, the trade-mark fauna that were the head-clan’s sigil, and the groups of dancing gypsies and conversing nomads.

The streets were linear, aligned where, straight ahead, the Qhyros temple overlooked the sandy domain. Through narrowed eyes, peering through the heat shimmers, the exterior that shaped long and slimmed towers were wrought with dragons, volnan felidaes’, and golden desert flowers. The temple was built on a foundation of sandstone stairs that were as tall as fifteen men, where on each square corner, tamed Terrik hounds guarded the fortress. 

“We should go quickly,” Krow announced to Y/N who nodded, gripping the hem of his sweaty garments, “I fear mold will grow out from under my arms.”

“Oh, quit your whining,” Y/N chuckled, linking their arms together, “This actually might be fun. I haven’t been to the Irieth domains in a long time. We should pick a souvenir on the way out. Let’s go.”

Oryosi flinched a little as he felt the impact of Krow brushing against his shoulder, beginning to pursue onwards through the bazaar with a flustered look, not used to the attention, especially as a mercenary. His wrists were bound by rope like shackles, where he was most impressed by Krow Vulnir’s tying skills. He would make a conniving mercenary if he had the chance.

Other Desolate Dogs were roaming the streets here and there, bigger and tougher mercenaries, where along the way, they sent Oryosi looks of disapproval, surely already going off to tell their captains of his failure. Oryosi only shuffled his feet quicker and closer to the traversing pair in order to shy away from their snickers, groans, and glares of judgement. He was more fearful, however, of the Sand Hounds that were beginning to migrate towards the temple.

“Princess Y/N, I don’t mean to rush you, but I think we should hurry,” Oryosi whispered quickly to Y/N, “I fear we may be drawing in some unwanted attention. There are mercenaries everywhere.”

But before Y/N could reply, Krow threw him a harsh look, where Oryosi snapped his jaws shut.

“You’re one to talk. You’re the one whispering so suspiciously to Y/N. Shut your trap and get moving.”

Krow readjusted his grip around Y/N’s arm, tightening its hold, beginning to pull her faster along the bustling crowds of people and colorful vendors. Oryosi’s caution then escalated into a panic, the two were unaware of a group of Desolate Dog mercenaries forming a blockage across the street, tall and smirking at their way. 

When Y/N finally saw the towering, scaly-armored mercenaries blocking their way, she felt a certain tension in the humid atmosphere, where it was a thick fold of caution, warning Y/N to choose her words carefully towards those who glowered above them.

Bystanders were already beginning to gather around in curiosity as well, as Oryosi feared.

“Oh, no.” Oryosi groaned, where Krow jutted his elbow in his chest.

Blinking curiously, Y/N gave a small wave, where she unraveled her arm from Krow’s. Though he felt particularly afraid of Y/N’s safety, the solemn slant of her mouth was an expression he knew too well, even if he had seen such a thing for at least a million times now. Y/N took a stride forward and away from the two, beaming the slight of a smile.

“Hello, Desolate Dogs. Can I help you?”

One of the Dogs grounded his jaw, who Oryosi recognized as _Agar_ , known for his pungent odor of heavy wines and fierce brutality. 

“That there Dog that you’ve got tied up is one of us, you see,” Agar spoke up in a rough voice, wagging a thick finger at Oryosi who shied away, shrinking his head deeper into his shoulders, “And I don’t know if you weren’t aware of how things go around here, but you don’t just go tying up a Dog without an explanation, and expect to roam here free.”

“Well, we do have an explanation, sir. But I’m afraid we’re in a hurry, so if you would kindly step aside—“

The mercenary wrinkled his nose and, making a nasty snort, spit into the ground near Y/N’s feet, stopping her from maneuvering around him.

Oryosi had almost let out a disgusted screech, while Krow felt the pushing of a rising anger spreading throughout his nerves from the soles of his feet. He veered his head, pointing glare at the mercenary, raising the clutched rope in his hands, waving it gallantly in his face. Oryosi flinched as his reddening wrists shook with the bouncing and thrashing rope.

“For your information, we caught this idiot stalking us without revealing his commission. That’s his fault, not ours. So, why don’t you step aside and mind your own business? If you do that, then we won’t have a problem here.”

Agar did not appear so intimidating, until he got closer. The black, braided hair was tangled with his drooping and thin beard, laying across his leathery, scaled breastplate, dangling with various thick and golden chains. The gaudy loincloth draped across his legs were distinctively stained with blotches of red wine—or what Oryosi assumed to be was blood.

As he stomped closer, Y/N estimated that he was about seven-feet tall, three-hundred-and-twenty pounds, an undeniably big fella. The leather, scaled, and jeweled infused armor, where the breastplate that seemed just about to stretch from his fat alone, was shoved close in Y/N’s face. His eyes, like many of the other Irieth, were silver like wren coins, running with sagging crow’s feet—fiery with spite.

“Why don’t you take you and your friend here out of this domain before things turn ugly?”

“Is that a threat?” Krow growled lowly, twisting the rope around his hands to tie a knot around his belt.

“You wanna find out?”

  
  


『✭』

  
  


Cervantes Laurent, the second-born prince, Divinity of the Wind and Skies, and the only one most irritated at the banquet hall. He found the metallic resonation, tapping against his fork and plate calming, whereas the chattering of his brothers and sisters was not quite great company with his appetite. He would rather starve from braised pork, pickled grapes, and sweetened tea should it ever accompany Morok’s boasting and the triplet’s unimpressed laughter any day.

Each sibling from their respective quarters had a distinct reaction each morning after waking up. With the triplets, they were always tired, almost always tripping over themselves and stumbling into breakfasts with drool staining their lips. Wisp was a sweet songbird, whistling or humming as he closed the door to his quarters before merrily skipping to the table, occasionally tapping his fingers rhythmically along the sides of the flattened gold.

Morok, if he ever did sleep, would be exploding with energy. As flaming as he was, Morok would seize the day by scarfing down his food before rushing out the door to go start a fight in the citadel or track down a pack of hogs that would herd around the entrance to the White Hollow woods. Cervantes never had a day where Morok came home during the late afternoon, bleeding.

As for Cervantes, he was, as always, the quietest. Even at breakfast.

“I knocked him to his rear and nearly sliced an ear off! If only Maester Mavenpoor didn’t interrupt me with his annoying voice, I would have won that day!”

As the morning energy was practically alight in Morok’s bones, the boy would always be telling of his fights and scores of winnings. Cervantes was amazed that their father was still letting Morok become king with a prideful attitude, especially as a literal hot-head.

Morok relinquished the sound of Wisp’s bubbling laughter, where Cervantes only reacted with a classical eye-roll as he prodded the tip of his fork against a rolling grape. Yven seemed moderately interested, smiling crookedly as she sliced a portion of her steaming meat, dropping it generously on Wisp’s plate.

“Has anyone seen Y/N today?” Florentine asked as she rested her elbows on the table, “I could have sworn I saw her earlier this morning with Krow. It looked like she had a friend with her.”

“Knowing Y/N, it might’ve been just another sparring partner or another noble gifting her with another weapon,” Demetrius chimed monotonously, popping a grape in her mouth, “But either way, he looked like he was an Irieth.”

“What’s an Irieth doing all the way out here?”

Cervantes took an interest now, suddenly gaining a portion of his appetite back as he learned closer against the table. Although he couldn’t care less of what shenanigans any of his siblings were putting up with, even if he was occasionally invited, his interests peaked should he hear an opportunity of leaving the Echealion.

With no sight of Y/N or Krow, plus the occurrence of an unidentified Irieth, Cervantes found himself ready to bolt and sprint to the royal hangar, borrowing a ship and heading out towards the west.

“Did you see where they were going?” Cervantes questioned Demetrius, who shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly.

“I saw them heading to the Seeing Gates but they never went to the hangar to pick up a ship or anything. It’s a little ridiculous though. I don’t think Y/N would be crazy enough to go to the west by walking.”

Cervantes fell back in his seat, dropping his fork onto the table with a clang as he folded his arms. The smirk sent to Demetrius suggested otherwise, where she sent him a questioning glare as her brother lugged his head to the side.

“Y/N has fought wars without weapons, most of the time. You think she wouldn’t walk in the desert?”

“I think your sister is dumber to walk to her own grave, if that’s the case.”

The voice of their mother, Gardenia E’rya, could never be forgotten when once heard. Sickly serene, with a tone of a dark, snobbish noblewoman who would have an army ready to tear her enemies’ throats out. Her cunningness showed in her graceful and practiced movements, the way her hands folded delicately over her son, Wisp’s hair, carding her fingers affectionately through his blondish locks—resembling much like her own.

Cervantes never saw her the way Y/N did, neither did the rest of her siblings. Though they did understand her predicament, none of them had the heart to turn on their mother, their actual and true-born mother. Gardenia may be colder to Y/N, but she shared enough warmth for them all.

“Where is father? Is he with Krow and Y/N?” Morok asks as he chews on a slab of pork.

There is a noticeable trace of resentment that flashes in her eyes, and yet, Gardenia plays with the smile on her mouth.

“Your father won’t be joining us today. He has business with the Saeles folk and Y/N’s marriage.”

Morok choked on a slice of pork, Wisp hurriedly patted his brother’s back, Yven spewed a shower of tea onto the table, while her other two sisters had accidentally bit the insides of their cheeks. The children were scrambling, in a complete disarray before Cervantes shot from his seat, the legs of his chair scraping violently along the stone floor where a puddle of tea dripped from his shoes.

He stared at his mother, who did not seem to mind the chaos of her children, but merely blinked innocently, smiling as she came to face her second-born son.

“I take it we haven’t told you yet?” Gardenia inquired with a hint of a chuckle.

_“Y/N’s—“_ Morok paused to cough, _“—Getting—“_ Another cough, _“_ ** _—Married!?_** _”_

Gardenia shrugged her shoulders that were pulled over a coat of hounds fur, waving a hand dismissively.

“What do you mean?” Cervantes furrows to his mother, who laughs in poor effort.

“Luckily for her, Ramses doesn’t have the heart for an arranged marriage. Cyreus Saeles will be courting her until the next blue moon. Isn’t that romantic? _A love that comes once in a blue moon_.”

Wisp didn’t seem to process his mother’s words as he stood from his seat, too, gaping.

“Y/N’s never going to agree to a marriage until then! Besides, Y/N is not going to fall in love with a guy like him. He’s too much like her.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of bonding with someone who has common interests?” Gardenia rose a brow to Wisp who lowered his head, raising his brows.

“Haven’t you ever heard of _opposites attract?_ ”

There was a heavy, exceptionally tense atmosphere that hung around the banquet hall. Where the space between Wisp and Gardenia was filled with the visibly uncomfortable and anxious other Skaraeith siblings, it was then Cervantes decided to take his leave, promptly stepping away where Gardenia clapped her hands together.

“Well! It shouldn’t concern us now and it shouldn’t have to in the future. Come, let’s get this cleaned up and continue eating.”

Yes, the Skaraeith children always clean their messes.

And there Cervantes went, about to clean up Y/N’s.

  
  


『✭』

  
  


Y/N found that this was a predicament she would rather not get into. At least, not today. With her satisfactory levels—that were in fact, satisfactory—Y/N feared that she would go overboard should she exceed her aggressive limits. In such usual instances, it was frequently difficult to turn the other cheek, and yet Y/N really wanted to wipe the floor with this man.

The crowd was already beginning to grow in alarming numbers around them, so much so that they would push and trample each other to get a better look. Y/N began counting the approximate number of casualties if they dared engaging on this brawl. 

Making a hasty decision, she was already shoving a foot forward to step in between the Dog and Krow, her hands raised defensively, as she spared Krow a disapproving look. On the other hand, Krow found that with Y/N stopping him from punching this mercenary’s teeth in, he was again denied another good point of his day. He let her slide in front of him, letting herself be towered over by the mercenary.

“We’ll gladly take the chance and leave. I’ll just drop this one off at the nearest inn and let him return to his post. Have a nice day.”

Y/N reached down and scooped up Krow’s hand, whose blazing and ferocious glare never left the pack of Dogs that barked such haughty and boasting rounds of laughter. The crowd was already beginning to disperse, clearly disappointed and yet relieved that there would be yet another day of the absence of bloodshed. The Irieth were a fiery bunch of Amisians, after all—rivaling the spirit of the Skaraeiths.

“Oh, so now you don’t want to fight?” Krow whisperingly spat to Y/N who, in return, rolled her eyes.

“There’s a difference between a battle and a fight, Krow. Look how many people there are! What kind of person would I be, especially in my position, if I were to hurt someone—“

“—Hope to see you again without your little dunce boyfriend, sweetheart! I’ll reserve a room just for you and me!”

Oryosi’s eyes flew to Y/N, who had stopped in her tracks, and where Krow also sent her a restless and anxious look. 

“P-princess Y/N?” Oryosi called out in a meek and trembling voice, nearly jumping as Y/N’s voice echoed throughout the bazaar.

“Say that again?”

The burly mercenary exchanged an intrigued, grinning glance to the others, flattening his palms on his hips before striding closer forward, his teeth baring as he cupped his hands around his lips. Krow braced himself for the booming voice that nearly shattered his eardrums.

“I said; I’ll reserve a room for us to _fu—“_

Agar, all three-hundred-and-twenty pounds of him, was sent flying and scraping against the sand and into the other Dogs. The weight of his impact, with his broad shoulders and sagging arms, had brutally struck the other men, who came crashing down into the sand and being piled on by the sputtering Dog. Through gruntled shouts and strained gasps, they all wriggled from under his fat, seeing that Agar’s breastplate had caved in, sheared in half straight down the middle, where the creases of Y/N’s knuckles were embedded in the metal.

_“You,”_ Another mercenary blubbered out, “What do you think you’re doing!?”

Oryosi and Krow were frozen among the beings who brandished one of Agar’s scimitars in her hands, leading the astonished and awe-stricken crowd around them to wonder how Y/N pilfered his weapons by just one punch. Y/N took her own strides before the fallen Dogs, leveling the tip of the blade as it ran along the apple of Agar’s throat, smiling.

“Care to escort me to the Qhyros temple?” Y/N asked quietly, dipping her head towards Agar, who winced harshly as she pressed a foot into his bruised chest.

“We’ll escort you to your grave!” A voice raged from behind her.

Y/N could feel that cut in the air’s tension. She felt herself give in to her better instincts that screamed at her to roll from a diving scimitar’s curving slice, a wave of that sand sea crashing against her body. She was crouching near the other mercenaries where she was careful not to get any closer to the by-standing crowd who exclaimed in both interest and horror—their appetites getting the best of them, much like Y/N’s, who was definitely exceeding her limits.

The tensions in the air were squeezed out of her, her lungs constricted by a weight that pressed against her ribcage. Heavy arms slip from behind, wrapping around her torso. The Dog in front charged with a furious howl, kicking through the sand with his blade dragging against the stilling winds, aiming to slice her belly. Yet, with a tremendous amount of force propelling from her knees, Y/N raised her legs, feeling every bit of her strength reach the bottom of her feet, delivering a flying kick to his stomach.

Her descent back into the clouded sand has her head stuck in it, hunching forward on her plummet. Her reflexes were kind and nimble, whereafter Y/N threw her head back into her holder’s nose, feeling immediate relief in her pressured chest. She could feel the spotted warmth of his blood in her hair, where she gave a short grimace before twirling in one fluid motion, akin to her own abilities that she dared not show, swinging her heel into his chest where the Dog rolled into the sand, sputtering blood.

“What are you doing!?” Oryosi shrieked, what turned into a yelp as one of the mercenaries charged for them.

Krow acted on his instincts, excited that he wouldn’t miss a good point of the day. He pried his hands open like a spreading fire. His palms, surging with a power that burnt from out of the skin of his fingers, was a rare green that the Irieth had not seen in decades as they lived in such dryness. Such emerald wavelengths protruded, filling the air in whipping forms where Krow hurled his arms, sending lashes upon lashes of power. The Dog was not unfamiliar to the motions, however, adaptable where the blade of his scimitar twirled and rotated in his hands in fluxing movements, deflecting each pulsation of energy, taking slow steps forward.

Y/N is occupied with another Dog that barks viciously, raising her arm to scrape against metal that dive for her. Her thick vambrace struck and dragged against the Dog’s stick, the sound of shrill metal piercing in her ears. Guiding the level of the blade downwards, Y/N raised and jutted her free elbow into his throat. The back of her snapping wrist knocked down his aimed weapon, watching as he staggered back and clutched his clogged throat. With a few steps back, Y/N delivered a colossal pummel into his stomach, denting in his armor—much like Agar, who had come charging once more.

In spite of her panic as Y/N threw her head towards Krow, she was suddenly locking hands with Agar who pushed against her, letting out a terrible roar of anger as he challenged her brute strength.

_“You little wench!”_ Agar snarly barked, strained against Y/N, pushing with all his might against her, where her heels sunk into the sand.

Krow was beginning to have trouble maneuvering properly from behind, as Oryosi’s nervous, stumbling shuffles were not as quick as the mercenary in front of them. Krow would never let such honest words slip from his tongue, but he gave to his impulses, stretching a hand over his chest to let out a surge of power that split the thick ropes around Oryosi’s hands.

“A little help!?” Krow shouted hotly as the mercenary raised his blade over his head, ready to deliver the killing blow.

In the heat of the moment, Oryosi was in a frenzied panic. Despite being named after Oryos, the fearsome and bloodthirsty third-son of Dagantu, the Mighty Lyon of the Dunes, Oryosi felt as if he were akin to a small rodent. Maybe even smaller than that; maybe as small as a speck of sand. Despite training his whole life, he was not built for fighting like many other Amisians, where Oryosi was better at studies and research than stealth and killing.

In between his breath and Krow’s, he sparred a glance to Princess Y/N, who did not appear to be breaking a sweat against Agar, who was fighting with all of his strength. Princess Y/N Skaraeith; he had heard stories of her conquests many times, of the Skaraeith Wild Star that has a part of the universe in her palm. Even if the stories depicted the princess bathing in her enemies’ blood, she wasn’t as fearsome as some described her to be as he watched her from the shrubs of the White Hollow woods, nor when she was encouraging him to be something more than what he had been training his whole life to be.

Y/N was exceptionally different, showing signs of such morality that Oryosi wondered if she ever even killed another living being.

“Me? _The little wench?_ That’s rich! Fight like you mean it!” Y/N barked back, beginning to strain as she caught Agar’s wrists.

Then again, Oryosi had never met Y/N in person before.

Oryosi sees from his peripheral Y/N’s movements, her smaller arms swinging with a winding and heavy strength, a roar ripping from her throat and tearing through the sandy air as she chucks Agar’s entire body in a single hurl. His blubbering fat moves like an ocean’s waves as he soars—people are diving, trying to avoid drowning.

The impact is unwittingly powerful, as Agar ends up smashing into a nearby house, crashing through sandstone where dry, sandy, and stone debris rains down throughout the air in a great, yellow cloud. The bazaar grows exceptionally loud, alive with the sight of strength before them—praising two Amisians, where Krow is desperate for him to become the third.

_“Oryosi!”_ Krow shouts, raising his arms above his head in attempt to protect himself from the blade that is just above the tuff of his hair.

The mercenary’s blade does not get to cut a single strand, however, as Oryosi takes a step.

Unlike the Skaraeiths, with the exception of the Queen and Krow, regular Amisians do not have complete control of their inherited abilities. Those who were alive during the _Second Age_ , before their _Greatest Doom_ , said that all of the Amisians’ powers come from a single entity. While some argue and claim that it was the destructive old gods who had cursed them, others say that their fleeting gifts were what made Amisians such strong and prideful beings.

Oryosi never liked using his power, that orange flux that would stream from his hands with an unlikable surge of energy burning through him. His fingers would feel fuzzy thereafter, then feeling extreme exhaust as such energy was taken from him to attack. 

Oryosi felt such a familiar feeling as he slid from under Krow's legs, his hands snapping in symmetrical forms, where a flash of orange hit the blade from under. It was sent flying out of the Dog’s hand, where Krow swiftly lurched forward and delivered a few pummels to his torso and neck.

Rolling into the sand to avoid the tip of the falling blade, the scrambling mercenary shrieked as the weapon pierced into the sand, nearly slicing his leg clean. Instead, the beaten mercenary fell heavily near him, the Dog went face-first into the sand as a ring of pale auburn colors wafted into the air. The crowd was roaring with praise now. Oryosi gave a sputtering gasp as he turned over from his stomach, seeing the aftermath of Y/N, Krow, and himself—alive.

Before Agar is able to stand again after shoving the chunks and foundations of sand and stone from his beaten and sore body, Y/N is in his sights again—where he no longer feels gallant enough to utter a word. Y/N’s eyes are dark as the shadow cast is hard for Agar to see. He can feel the cold, strangely, a chill running down his skin that is colder than the sweat on his brow.

Agar feels her wrath—her power, taking the form of a smile.

“You will escort me, Princess _Y/N Paesyn Skaraeith_ , her friend _Krow Vulnir_ , and one of your own Dogs, _Oryosi Val_ , to the Qhyros temple. _Not your bed_.”

Y/N waves her fingers, where the cold that Agar feels hovers closer to his neck, its sharp tip digging into his throat.

“Understood?” Her smile stretches wider as he nods hurriedly, scrambling to stand as he collects his fallen men.

“ _P-princess?_ ” One of the bystanders stuttered, invoking a round of shocked and meek whispers.

The titles princess, _Wild Star, The Last Wind_ , and the _Bastard Heir_ had whispered and reached into Y/N’s ears, who did not flinch at such names that were meant to breathe shame upon her. The only slight disturbance is the impatient sweat that she feels as she swipes a hand across the nape of her neck, where she finally takes notice of her rather grotesque appearance.

Merely tipping her head towards the direction of the temple, disregarding the bits of blood on her hands, the group carry on, continuing the rest of the journey to the Qhyros temple.

  
  


『✭』

  
  


The Qhyros temple housed the last-standing ancestral dynasty that reigned since the _First Age_. They were fierce-blooded, respectable in court, and formidable on the battlefield. Despite the company of Desolate Dogs running through the various domains, they were powerful accompaniments to the Sand Hound soldiers that swore servitude to the Qhyros clan. 

Y/N, however, found them to be more like _mutts_ as they blocked the entrance.

Unlike the Dogs who wielded scimitars, the Hounds wielded long, jeweled spears. They were remarkably more fit in the appearance of battle—their armor were neither embroidered scale-leather breastplates or draping loincloths around their thighs—but heavy suits of amber armor, leathery brown strapped gloves that protected the callouses in their palms. The tips of their weapons sheathed together as the two posted Hounds crossed their poles together, where Y/N, Krow, and Oryosi were just about to step through—ultimately being blocked from entering the temple. The Hounds, wearing helmets that resembled the heads of snarling Terrik dogs, glowered above her.

“Khrosa Aruul Qhyros is not seeing anyone today. Be gone.” A thick accented voice spoke through the shadows behind the metal fangs.

Y/N licked her teeth, finding no spirit within her to go another round of fighting pointlessly. The word **_Khrosa_** meant _ancestral clans-leader_ , where it did not fall from the Hound’s tongue gently.

“Well, isn’t this quite the predicament?” 

Her eyes fixate properly from her peripherals, enraptured by the moving figure of a young boy approaching close to the entrance of the temple. He looks older than a child, a long face with silver eyes that are thin behind thick spectacles, his shoulders are pulled back while his spine pushes outwards; a pompous posture. Y/N is taken by the color of his hair; silver black, like the scales of a night wyvern that glistens under the moonlight, much like his sharp gaze. He is shockingly cold-looking, despite living in the dry Irieth dunes.

Y/N stands and leans on her toes as she finds the boy’s face clearer. Promptly ignoring the resounding growls of the two Hounds as they grow closer in such unwanted proximity, unlike Krow and Oryosi who swallow the dryness hard—too afraid to get close and tug Y/N back. She merely innocently beams at the boy.

“Pardon me. But could you tell these Hounds to lower their spears? I have a meeting with the _Khrosa_. _Khrosa Aruul Qhyros?_ It is an urgent matter.”

The boy raises a brow, folding his arms from under the massive, white sleeves of his robe. The delicate jewels that hang from his neck click together with a melodious chime, resounding each time as he takes a proud stride forward, closer to Y/N who unconsciously holds her breath—his eyes narrowing the closer he approaches.

“Where are you from? You don’t look like you are from any of the Irieth domains.”

Y/N lowered herself in a bow, “I am from the Echealion. I am—“

The boy suddenly laughs mirthlessly, as Y/N is taken with puzzlement, her spine straightening stiffly.

“Right. You’re from the Echealion,” He speaks with a sarcastic tone, nodding slowly, “I’m supposed to believe that a messy-haired, ragged-clothed, and not to mention, quite distastefully appealing noblewoman has a council with my father? I don’t think so.”

Y/N blinks once. Twice. Krow and Oryosi take a step back as the muttering of Y/N’s quiet voice reaches their ears.

“ _Messy-haired?_ ” Y/N echoes with a raised brow, her words growing louder, “ _Ragged-clothed? Distastefully appealing!?_ Who do you think you are, you little runt!?”

There were only a handful of children, let alone adolescents who were either smarter for their own good or stupider. Among those presences, Y/N couldn’t help herself but give a strong sense of discipline to them, providing an extra amount of strength as she cracked a whip against a tree or crushed the bones of cooked Murids between her teeth during dinners. Should fate ever bless her with their youthful faces falling into such expressions of fear, Y/N found it delightful, wanting nothing more now to beat some sense into this kid.

“I am the head _Scribe_ , if you couldn’t tell by that greasy mop of hair of yours that’s covering your eyes. I am the seventh son of the Khrosa, _Ago_. You’ll do well to remember that when the other Hounds of our prison ask you who sent you there.”

His olive skin is basked in the peeking shroud of sunlight as he raises a hand to dismiss the three away.

“Go on, then. Take her—“ Before he sends his Hounds to collect the bustling trio, a man appears from behind Ago, tall and dark—black-haired. Y/N does not need to think as she sees him, a beat of respect sounds in her heart, reminding her of her own manners.

“—Now, Ago. There will be none of that.” His voice is rough like the scraping of a shoe against sandstone, wet as if there was blood in the middle as his thick accent laced arcs in his words. Yet, he was gentle, even towards his own son who displayed such rudeness and to Y/N as he gave a grand bow.

The boy looked alarmingly distressed, his nose wrinkling as he gestured a hand to Y/N.

“Father, this woman was being a nuisance and had the audacity to call me a runt. She claimed she had a meeting with you. But…judging by her _appalling_ appearance—“

“— _Appalling!?_ —“ Y/N snarls as Krow dives his hands low to scoop her waist, holding her back.

“—I was just about to send her to the prison barracks. Lies don’t pay well in the court.”

Ago was exceptionally similar to his father, whose similar grey eyes flickered in the light, shiny like wren coins. His face was long, a jaw square and firm as he grinded his teeth to his son. Undoubtedly, the Khrosa appeared much younger than he actually was, as Y/N often mistaken him for the highborn lords of the Echealion or a newly-blooded ranger from the north. But no, Aruul has lived since the beginning of the Second Age, spared from the Greatest Doom. 

He was **_ungodly_** fortunate.

“How ironic,” Aruul laughs, shaking his head, “You spend all the hours of your days writing letters to kings, queens, princesses, and princes. And yet, you can’t tell what royalty is even as it stands in front of you.”

Ago switches the sides of his grinding jaw, his hand falls to smack against his side.

“I’m afraid the royal families don’t describe themselves in their letters.”

“Oh, I’ll spell it out for you, you little—“ Krow slaps a hand around Y/N’s growling mouth, letting her go.

_“—Y/N,”_ Krow warns softly before his eyes flitter to Aruul, who strangely remains amused, “My sincerest apologies. We have traveled a long way, the roads have not been kind.”

Aruul watched solemnly as Krow bended in a bow, prompting Oryosi to do the same.

“I am Krow Vulnir, a good friend and appointed protector for her…Princess Y/N Paesyn Skaraeith, the first-born daughter of King Amwren Ramses, the First Mantle of the golden throne, the daughter of the sun and stars, and so forth…”

Y/N hones her focus to Ago, who blinks widely before nodding.

“Oh.” The small utterance was his only reaction.

“ _“Oh?”_ That’s all you have to say?” Y/N flattens her palms on her hips, shaking her head.

With a swift gesture of his hand, Aruul orders the Hounds to let the three Amisians pass through. The sun had beaten them down quite brutally, as the Khrosa had flickered his sights to the various dark spots of bruises and reddened patches of skin on their bodies. The dirtied, bloodily spotted tunics and lightly-padded armor made it certainly easier for Ago to doubt their nobility. They were in a fight recently, he notes, nodding to himself slowly as his mind reels in red.

“You’re the one who beat my third son into the dirt.” 

Oryosi nearly chokes and bows his head low, _“We’re terribly sorry!”_

“Well,” Y/N began, letting herself be ridden of her weapons by the handmaidens who came their way, “We aren’t here on diplomatic business, Aruul. Krow and I found this Desolate Dog, Oryosi here as a spy while we were at the White Hollow woods. Do you know anything about that?”

Aruul folds his arms against his chest, sparing a glance to Oryosi who flinches from his narrowed gaze.

“No, I do not. He’s a Dog, not a Hound, Princess Y/N. I don’t have the traditional control over the mercenaries. Even if I did, I still don’t know what this has to do with me.”

Y/N rose a brow, where Aruul then heaved a sigh and continued.

“Mercenaries are bought to carry out a person’s dirty work in secrecy. Whoever commissioned the mercenary you caught has already done their business and paid him well.”

“But he _wasn’t_ paid,” Y/N argued coldly, pointing a thumb to Oryosi who shrunk back, “What kind of mercenary takes a commission without getting paid? Surely, it goes against their code.”

A beat of silence hung ominously, until Aruul nodded firmly.

Like Sand Hounds, Desolate Dogs were obligated to follow a strict morale as they tended to their duties. All of their commissioned funds would be added to the wealth of Qhyros, where the payment would spread throughout all of the domains in the Irieth. It was the only serious measure that Aruul had supervision over, finally giving into Y/N as he ordered his Hounds to guide Oryosi to the barracks for interrogation.

Y/N watched as the albeit, terrified mercenary threw his head over his shoulder, sparing a glance with wide eyes. She could not find it in her heart to bid him goodbye, finding the drawn line between them as he refused to disclose such terrifying information. Had she found him under very different circumstances, even if it was just a passing stranger, she would’ve been happier—safe.

Y/N could only be left to wonder who, on this planet, would go to such lengths to keep tabs on her.

Ago had bid his father farewell as he was obligated to monitor the session, acknowledging his presence to Krow with a nod of his head, but neither sparring a glance nor even muttering a word to Y/N. With his nose high, he followed the Hounds that rallied to the exiting chamber, their descending shadows cast along the stone walls with the glow of the torchlights. She sneered even after his absence, finding it unfathomably amazing that she didn’t throw anything to his head on the way out.

“I must say, your children are in _dire_ need of discipline.”

Aruul seems to agree, beginning to traverse through the temple walls deeper to the main chamber.

“Yes…I must apologize. Things are a lot different now that our clan has gotten… _smaller_.”

Aruul’s eyes glaze over with a tinge of lament, his laugh is fleeting and hollow of any genuine humor. Y/N knows this emptiness well, as it takes such physical form in his cracking smile. And in an instant, Y/N regrets her words—visibly frowning.

“Aruul, what happened to your wife and daughter was a terrible thing. I will never forget them. _Amara_ …was an exceptional comrade-in-arms and a good friend. And your wife, _Nadia_ …”

Aruul was wise to look upon his memories fondly, rather than the horrors that would come to haunt him later that night in his sleep. He remembers when the sun against the dunes were gentle, a warmth unimaginably more comforting than the scorch that hits his everyday skin. Amara, his fifth-born and only daughter, was truly an impressive combatant, the Desert Flower. He remembers his daughter looking up to Y/N as a youth, where she gladly took her as a squire back when she was still a part of the Atralis army. 

His past wife, Nadia shared the same fate with Amara, however; slaughtered. 

“ _The Greatest Doom_ ,” The name was like a sour thing against his teeth, “A war that ended in only a single morning. It’s hard to believe that though it happened so long ago, we can still see the blood that drowned our lands.”

Krow and Y/N had been in synchronicity for what it, bowing their heads to some unfortunate soul that begs for salvation in his living afterlife—devout of his loved ones that he can longer see within this mortal realm. Aruul, like many others, have loved and lost. What semblance the two had for the rest of the world, had made them only lower their heads in respect.

No word of justice could leave their tongues.

And yet, they find the strength to carry on and find it.

“I will do everything in my power to find out who keeps their eye on you,” Aruul frowns as he reaches a hand to brush away Y/N’s tear, “Whatever keeps Oryosi from talking about his buyer, I will pursue in other ways. The domain is small, but we are united to one another.”

“Do you think his buyer threatened him? Threatened his family?” Y/N inquires with furrowed brows, deeply troubled by such a thought.

“Mercenaries leave their family’s vows after a hundred years of training. Whoever threatened him had to have threatened him with his own life.”

Y/N suddenly found pity for Oryosi.

“I will find out what I can.” Aruul assured, giving a trying smile.

“Thank you, Aruul. I am in your favor.” Y/N gave a bow to the Khrosa, of which Krow gave as well.

As the high-borns turned to leave, they heard the echoes along the walls, crawling to their ears in Aruul’s voice—taking the form of an unkind farewell.

“I’m sure you are, _Edolesi_.”


	8. Seeds of Change「8」

## 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐒𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥

The hour of twilight, with all of its perpetual colors, seemed eerie as the Echealion remained still in its glory—ethereal and dwelled in the wisps of shadows. The glow was chilling as much as the wind that blew from the north, where it traveled south and ushered in the first warning that Krow Vulnir couldn’t miss. 

He brought his hands together, his skin entreating for warmth, rubbing slowly together with little rewarding friction. As much as it pained him, he chose not to call out to Y/N in front of him, who remained unbothered by the wind striking against her, lashing at her hair that had been relieved of sweat. The scorching deserts were cool and distant now, beginning to happen upon the border between the Irie and the Echealion—the dark greenery of forests reflecting just beyond their reach.

 _A little further_ , Krow pushes himself to carry on for just another step, _just a little further and I can bathe until the morning comes._

Conversation wasn’t a maintained activity between them. It seemed that Aruul Qhyros’ farewell didn’t sit well with Y/N as she wordlessly left the Dagan domain. Her furrowed expression diminished its crinkles as they were finally free from the crowded bazaar, where Y/N seemed to be more bothered by their gossiping presence more than usual. A small part of Krow wanted to blame himself, but he only chose to follow in silence.

Soon, he reminds himself desperately, this will all be over.

“Snowblight begins tomorrow,” The sound of Y/N’s voice brings him from his own head, “How absolutely dreadful.”

Admittedly, Krow found snowblight to be quite delightful. The clouds would come in such heavy, pure formations that rained down such gentle snow. The northern regions would glow with a pristine white, where the tops of the Terius mountains blew with harsher blizzards—and yet the tribes below did not find it bothersome. Even in the Irie dunes did the cooler breezes from the east sweep through the valleys of sand. Though it did not snow, it was a much more idealistic place to be for Y/N, who couldn’t seem to stand the bitter cold during these recent times. 

Despite her words, Krow knew she wouldn’t go back there.

“Do you remember the last snowblight we had? Or the one before that?” Y/N’s head drifts to him, upholding the silence with eyes soft with lament, “Neither do I. All I can remember is the night sky looking over us our whole lives. Even when we fought, near-dying there were always stars above us. Father says that they are the true reminders of hope…of change…of tomorrow. Now that’s all I see, wondering if there ever will be another tomorrow.”

Krow carries his head towards the heavens, the glittering lights in his eyes are not kin to the blaze in Y/N’s eyes as he looks back. She never looks at him as she follows her scanning north to south, where Krow finds it in himself to approach closer—disliking the distance between them.

“I wish…I wish tomorrow would be different.”

Mustering an ounce of a cold breath, Krow imitated her sights, watching as a northern wind swept through the rustling trees, the palace just beyond them.

“The Echealion will be holding a ceremonial dinner, won’t they? All the lords and ladies will come bustling in, making a mess of the dining hall, whatever else they could do with a pint in their bellies. Please tell me you’re not thinking of missing it. If Ramses finds out you’re not going to join them—”

_“—I will.”_ Y/N snaps, veering her head to Krow whose jaw hinges shut.

Though she speaks roughly, there is a softness in her eyes. The stars there are growing brighter, streaming down her cheek that burns against the setting sun. Krow holds his breath, fearing he may have underestimated the impact of Aruul’s words. He fights the urge to dive and console her, yet approaches in careful, crunching steps atop the sand—next to her. He fears that if he isn’t careful enough, he might sink and lose her forever—when she is just out of reach.

“I’m sorry,” She mutters, letting Krow come closer to hold her wrist, “I just…I can never calm down knowing I have enemies in the field, now. Whatever they do next, whoever they threaten next with their lives just to cast me down…I can’t bear to stand it.” 

Krow nods unconsciously, his head low and his eyes swimming in the dark sand.

“I’m sure you will insist on protecting me,” Y/N hums quietly, a fluttering laugh leaving her lips that causes him to smile, “And I’m sure you’ll save me from Gardenia’s wrath for getting back to the palace so late.”

Krow finds the lightness in his chest again, huffing out a brief laugh as he slips his fingers from Y/N’s wrist and down to her palm. He feels her unfamiliar shudder, of which he is careful to wrap around. He is profound that her nose doesn’t crinkle anymore, bringing a swelling burst of happiness in his heart. Although he is this close, he can never bring himself to hold her. 

“Shall we?” Y/N begins to walk but he doesn’t move.

Krow feels this bitterness, a spite that crawls up the walls of his throat that aches to say such emotional things. He doesn’t want the thought to tear him apart; the truth. The more he avoids it, the worse the actions will become, he knows.

And so, with a gathering, cold breath, Krow slips his hands around hers now. He feels her flinch against him, but he pushes the last of his strength he has to hold her still, readying his tongue. Immediately, Y/N senses his distress, watching the creases upon his brow and the way his nose crinkled. 

“Krow?” She asks slowly, eyes peering deep to find any form of resolve, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Krow swallows tightly, eyes adrift against hers, nearly lost in the brewing storm.

“You know that I will do everything in my power to keep you safe, to keep each other safe. You also know that I intend to find out who is against you, no matter the cost. If you really are planning to…take them out during the ceremony, I would be by your side.”

_Would be?_

Y/N’s brows knit together, her skin drawn to the pull of the air. She tries to find his conclusion, seeing as it was troubling for him. Yet, she didn’t know either. It was a surprising dilemma.

“But…maybe I can get rid of them before tomorrow even comes. Before we make a big disaster…Maybe we can put an end to all of this and everything will go back to how things were.”

Y/N studies Krow, his every movement and every twitch of his expression. What she sees is no lie within him, yet there is a danger that alerts her. A hesitant look is all that he receives, before seeing her nod unconfidently. 

“What do you mean?” Y/N inquires softly, her fingers curling around his palm, where it was just enough for them to slip away without so much as a pull. He feels this, too—stifling.

“I…” Krow pauses, breathing deeply, “I need you to understand…”

Y/N holds her breath, as does Krow.

“I’ve been appointed as Gardenia’s right-hand.”

_“What?”_ Y/N’s sharp response was immediate, where he flinches to her volume.

“I didn’t want to do it but I thought about your situation and—“

_“—Gods, Krow!—”_ Y/N groans aloud, yanking her hands away from his to hold the bridge of her nose.

“—I didn’t know what else to do,” Krow continues hotly, clenching his jaw, “I thought that because I was appointed a new, official position of power, we could have a better chance of handling this. I know you don’t trust her, but think of our advantages now!”

Krow looks on as Y/N is farther from him now, pacing anxiously as she holds her head. There is a malice in the air with every breath she takes, her skin shaking with rage with each movement she pulls and twists from her body. Y/N feels as if she would go ballistic, feral against him like the true wildling she was.

Instead, she channels her seething anger, veering her head to him, eyes blazing with a new ignition of hatred. This new form threatens him, yes, but it doesn’t make him feel intimidated. He only feels the fear of watching her move farther away, as Y/N fights with every fiber of her being not to manifest something onto him, to keep her appetites from seeing him as an enemy; a traitor. 

“You thought it was _fine_ to follow the orders of that wretched woman? Krow, she could jeopardize this entire situation for us; cage us! Did you not get a good look of just _who_ you were talking to!?” 

Krow tightens his jaw from her outbursting roar, swallowing dryly as he tries his best to remain firm against her.

“Y/N, I know you hate Gardenia—“

 _“—Ooh, ‘hate’ doesn’t even_ ** _begin_** _to describe it.”_ Y/N snaps viciously, nearly laughing mirthlessly, “That woman has _alienated_ , _abused, chained, and neglected_ me from the first day we met! So, I apologize if I’m being a bit too doubtful of you trusting the offer from someone like her.”

“Y/N, please,” Krow urges, lurching forward to grasp her hand again, “I didn’t trust it—“

Yet, she slaps it away.

_“Then why did you accept it!?”_

**_“Because then I would never see you again!”_ **

_Threatening someone with their life_ , Y/N thinks grimly, _it somehow seemed better than threatening someone with the most important thing in their world._

Y/N begins to recount all the times Gardenia had ever wronged her throughout her life, even in the smallest of forms. She remembers every jab in her stomach by her long heels, every sting on her cheeks from her silencing slaps, and every single word that breathes the word bastard to her ears. She finds it horrifically laughable that Y/N managed to endure her for this long, cursing and barraging at the barrier shaped like her father between them.

Her father, her husband. The _sick_ feeling begins to coil again, twisting and thwarting in her darkest pits. Y/N wonders how she could bear with his own desperation, why she decided to let her troubles stay with her as she dealt with Gardenia daily. She feels the darkness stir again, growling and hissing at the light that comes through her prying mouth.

She wants to say something; she wants to say the truth.

_How did it come to this? How did it come to be this bad?_

Y/N’s mind reels with this new information, trying to process what might be able to stop seeing red in her vision. She tries to find some sort of resilience, but all she can do is seethe. As she peers into Krow’s face, tearful and flushed, much like the boy she had always known her whole life, Y/N notices that it was odd that she can breathe through the pain in her body.

“What?” Her voice is cracked and weaker, never able to see the movements of his as he comes closer now, relieved to see her relatively calmer, “What did you say?”

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I just…couldn’t—“

“—How could you let her do that?”

Krow finds her cause in a different light, one of concern and anxiousness. She doesn’t seem angry anymore at him, worried now as he finds himself in the same position as Oryosi. This time, he was threatened with her. He found it laughable, how coy.

“What was I supposed to do? It was either become her right-hand or become an open rebellion.”

“If you had chosen an open rebellion, I would’ve been with you!”

Krow breathes a laugh, a warm, mistral cloud between them. He curses his existence, wondering what sort of thing he could ever do before his birth that made him so below her, so weak. He is only blessed as Y/N reaches a hand to hold him, resting her palm against his cheek. It was damp, cold, with a brush of heat. 

“Krow, I’m begging you. Please, don’t fall prey to her. Don’t let her control you. She’ll use you against me the first chance she gets. Even worse, she might hurt you.”

Krow struggles to find an answer that would suffice, but he only nods, cupping his hand over hers, taking in her little warmth. Tears brushed against his nose, held high, as he asked for the fallen gods for forgiveness. The howling wind carries his prayers, of which he hadn’t done in a long time.

He wanted to believe that his faith in them would save him from what comes, but even he knew, being what he was, that only catastrophe would come.

  
  


『✭』

They cross to the Echealion together, making their way back towards the entrance of the Seeing Gates. 

Krow doesn’t think twice of the second wind that whips violently at his skin, letting the chill reach and sear his skin—their skin. In a way, it relieves him from the tension that had molded over his skin. He feels still and calm, finally upon the great bridges.

They take their steps hurriedly along the mountainous, marble bridge that curves around the grandeur of the palace. They are swallowed within the dimming lights of the standing towers, where the candle light strung along the marble walls sways violently with the cold air. The stained-glass ceilings shine iridescent flakes upon their skin, as they move along the shadows. 

And yet, Krow speaks again, hardly bearing through the echoing silence.

“I’m sorry…”

Y/N flashes a concerned eye to him, before pondering deep in thought. She is torn between scolding or consoling him. Her mouth slants and twitches, partly opening to form some sort of word that would be clever enough to save both of their necks. And yet, the voice that finally follows is dry.

“I don’t want anyone else to know about this. My father will turn the planet inside-out if someone were to threaten me, especially if it was another Amisian.” 

The two nearly grimace at the thought of the vengeful lengths Ramses would go through just to get a simple answer. What joy or satisfaction of her future safety that she may experience might not be able to overcome the grief and guilt—the people that her father risked to save her. Y/N never wants any of that, and never lets herself forget that possibility.

“Will you still attend the ceremony?”

“Yes. I don’t want to but…now I don’t really have another option. Whoever has that much of a reputation to threaten a trained mercenary will most likely be there tomorrow night to finish the job.”

Krow is entranced by the spirit and passion that burn in her eyes, ignited with a hatred that he hasn’t seen for centuries. Such emotions dwelled from within her during the eves of war and battles, it was an unlikely experience to see such a thing on their home planet here. But, Krow was not unfamiliar to the sight. The limitations of her appetites were over and beyond now, where Y/N turns to the standing Echealion that is surrounded by a veil of the first snow that melts in the sky.

A snow that burns is the foretelling of death before one’s time.

Krow pities the poor, untimely soul.

“Right, then…Say my name you’ll have me.”

The Echealion glows golden with the dusk, the white that glistens cold atop the spiraling, snow crested towers are quickly melting by the heat of the falling sun. And yet, the clouds never stop its rain. What the people of the Echealion—Amis—sees is the beauty of their planet. They prepare for the joyous feasts and bustling activities of tomorrow, smiles adorned and radiance beaming. However, what Y/N and Krow sees is the next battlefield. Mercy sings a distant song as the sun finally sets, bringing the starry night that shrouds the snow in darkness. 

“Come,” Y/N puffs a warm cloud, “Let’s go home.”

However, before Krow can utter a response to her call, he hears something in the distance, something that snorts and clacks hollowly along the marble path of the gate. It is some sort of animal, he suspects, but there shouldn’t be any steeds passing at this hour. Krow was perfectly sure that they were the last ones to enter the Seeing Gates that evening, where the other noblemen and women would be tending to the festivities for tomorrow. He is suddenly on his guard.

He twists his head behind him, finding a darker shadow lurking in the night. As he squints, he can feel the harsh glare of a shining sapphire, resting on the silver armored breastplate of an orti that rides behind their path, kicking waves of snow in its path. The orti whinnies, warm steam slithering from its nose before it gallops, its dorsal fins slicing the raining snowflakes. 

Krow fears this and attempts to turn back to Y/N, who seemed to have been alert to the creature's steps, too. And yet, she is looking higher than the orti’s huffing head. There isn’t a fighting spirit becoming alight, but mere surprise.

Krow sees him now; Cyreus Saeles, stopping his steed in front of them as he looks on at Y/N.

And, as Cyreus smiled upon her, Krow felt utterly _foul_.

“Princess Y/N,” He greets with a loud voice, gallant and beaming, “I’ve come to escort you back to the palace. Our king…your father and the Queen have been worried about you for quite some time now.”

Y/N can feel Krow’s eyes on her, but she pays him no mind, instead returning the smiling gesture to the Slaver Prince.

“My sincerest apologies. I’ve been preoccupied with a few important affairs to even realize the sun went down. You shouldn’t have been tasked with such a thing as fetching me. How… _ridiculous_.”

The word leaves a bad taste against her teeth. Only Krow seems to have noticed as his mouth curls downward.

“It was no trouble. Surely, I’m not keeping you from discussing with… _whoever_ this is, so late at night. Who is this fellow? A commoner?”

Y/N doesn’t fail to notice Krow’s toothy scowl as he lowered his head in greeting. She doesn’t only catch that, but the disdain in Cyreus’s brisk, sea-foam eyes as he examines the shadowy green features of her dear friend. The baring teeth that flashes his way, the slow and crooked curl of his lip almost lets out a scoff as Krow rises. Y/N fears for only the noble’s safety, suddenly.

“Your Grace,” Krow hums lowly, arising to send a mirthless smile, “I am Krow Vulnir. It’s an honor.”

Cyreus is not vocal yet, giving a nod as he leaned into his palm. There is a gleam of interest in his eyes as his elbow props against the neck of his steed that snorts, almost in mockery. As Krow narrowed his glinting eyes, he saw that the Norrathian glowers upon him with a smirk—his hand caressing against the hilt of his weapon; an azure lance. 

“A _commoner_ , then,” Cyreus eyes at Krow, prolonging an improper snort that blows through the cold air, “How unexpected of you. This… _unseemly varmint_ is your protector?”

Y/N fights an urge within her; growling and hissing, tightening its coil in her chest. All she gives is a guttural sound that passes off as a strained laugh as she shoots a warning glance at Krow, who also does his best to remain firm, thinking of himself as sharper than Cyreus’s weapon. Her eyes beg not to do anything drastic, but she is taken by the Slaver Prince’s boastful voice again.

“Ah, how unkind of me. I apologize. Did I get that wrong? Or should I be addressing you as her _ward_ —“

“—A **_friend_** would suffice.” Krow interrupted sharply, drawing out a tighter smile.

Cyreus lets his mouth hang for a moment, before he drawls in a hum, nodding. He visibly removes his fingers from his weapon, tightening around the leather reins as his steed veers. 

“Right. Well then, I don’t intend to keep our king and queen waiting another evening.”

The Slaver Prince straightens on the back of his steed, extending a hand to Y/N whose eyes tighten from the gleaming sapphires of his light-armor. His hand is waiting for her generously to take, and yet, Y/N is weary of the true feel of his grip.

“Shall we?”

The snowflakes that flutters from her lashes are beckoned away from the wind as Y/N turns her head to Krow. She doesn’t want to cause a scene, not wanting to give the wrong impression. However, she strangely doesn’t want to break away from her intended. From what she heard from the little, gossiping birds within the palace walls, she had until the next blue moon until her decision.

Although she knows very well that her father expects her reports and own, truthful opinions of Cyreus, Y/N is torn between the truth and the facade. She only sees Krow, who looks just about desperate as she does.

Y/N takes his hand, sending a trying smile to Krow.

“Until the dawn, Krow. I hope all will be well.” 

_I sincerely hope_ , her eyes flash akin to dimming stars before trailing like comets as she and Norrathian ride away into the night.

As Krow is left alone, he wonders if things will truly ever go back to the way things used to be; even without Cyreus.

  
  


『✭』

  
  


Prince Cyreus Saeles was famous for leading a revolution against bandits, criminals, and lawless beings in the Nyrriean isles, where it was once an infamous peninsula for the Norrathians during the First Age. For such benevolent and exotic beings, it was ironic that, at the time, they were once ruthless pirates and thieves of the sea. How humorous Y/N found it to be as the famed Slaver Prince, who banded slaves, refugees, and outcasts together to overthrow the hierarchy he came from.

Y/N wonders if she could ever have the heart for such a thing, too; _to turn on one’s past self._

Unconsciously, fearful of the thought, Y/N withholds the urge to weep, reminded of the _valleys of dying stars._

“I’ve heard much about you from your mother,” Cyreus muses suddenly as they trot through the final, echoing tower, yet Y/N feels herself stiffen, “She seems to be eager for our… _courting_. But I suppose I shouldn’t be calling it that quite yet.”

“Oh, I have no doubt of her excitement,” Y/N rolls her eyes, keeping her arms respectively loose around the prince’s waist, “She’s been so annoyingly ecstatic these days. I can only imagine her reaction if she were to see us now.”

Before Cyreus can even move a lip, Y/N retorts suddenly.

“And Gardenia is my **_step-mother_** _._ I’m sure you’ve heard. I’d remember the proper terms here in the Echealion. It isn’t like Norrath.”

Cyreus is nearly stunned from Y/N’s direct honesty, releasing a warm cloud that encases a wistful laugh. As they ride along the loud marble path, Cyreus is nothing but mindful of her reactions. She hasn’t been responding in the ways that he had hoped, but taken completely as she is overbearingly mirthless, paying no such attention to the small details of their initial encounter and conversation.

He has never seen her in the battlefield before, but can only be left to imagine her prowess. He can already feel himself losing the war of smalltalk, breathless as if life itself was slipping from him.

“Right…I seem to be forgetting my manners. But, I must say, it’s quite a disputable fact. Such potential in the both of you, it’s truly stunning. Are you sure you’re not—“

_“—I’m perfectly sure.”_

She doesn’t need this. Y/N doesn’t need all of this mindlessness that so annoyingly took up her evening, what caused her to leave her dear friend behind alone in the night. It was arguable that it was what he deserved for taking the offer of the woman who tormented her for centuries. Krow was a willful soul, she knew that, but more often than not, his heart could be put in the wrong place.

Y/N knows he bears no ill will to anyone, but wonders how he can bear through until the blue moon.

“I’d…hate to be such a nuisance,” Cyreus begins, his tone softer now, yet struggling, “But I must confess; I don’t mind the fact that you’re not her daughter…that you’re not…”

_“A bastard?”_ Y/N finishes bluntly, where she finds the nervous trembling of his lips admittedly amusing, finding the lightness to smile, “Hmm…Thank you. Not many people tell me that.”

Even as his back is all that she can see, Y/N can tell that the Norrathian was trying to formulate his words intricately. She could feel the tension, even as his firm skin rests under leathers and silk, having similar experiences before. She can’t find it within her either, to console him. Y/N hadn’t found anyone recently who has sparked something different within her; a different reaction—full of care and interest.

“They don’t? I mean, I could understand them…probably. They don’t talk about you commonly in Norrath…When they do…they’ve only ever called you the Wild Star or Conqueror. They hold back on the more… _gorier_ details but…Even so, we hardly talk about your lineage.”

“I don’t know whether to be relieved or offended.” 

A laugh elicits from his throat, followed by a serpentine-like cloud that pours from the corners of his smile.

“Neither, I suppose. They don’t really matter, do they? You have those who have seen past that. Like your varmint friend.”

Y/N sends a pointed glance to him, taken by the swirls of light in the dark sky. The night has finally come, with snow that has coated the citadel in its white purity. The ridges of marble upon the Seeing Gates have even been powdered at the entrance to the Echealion palace, where the two Atralis guards posted in front have flakes of white on their adorned helmets and white-crested armor. 

“My lady,” Cyreus offers his hand again as he climbs down his steed, a proud smile adorned.

The scent of snowblight is crisp and fresh, cold in Y/N’s nose as she feels the breeze of one of the tunneling entrances of the Echealion, cursing its corridors for its howling chill. Although she is aware of Cyreus’s extended hand, Y/N merely turns a blind eye—vaulting from the lower rear of the orti that stretches the fins of his tail in surprise. Cyreus retreats his hand back to his side, lowering his head as she comes around and saunters his way. He finds it hard not to look in the other direction, where he is sure that the two posted knights are snickering.

“The snowblight ceremonial dinner is tomorrow. Perhaps, we could—“

“Yes,” Y/N interrupts with a sly smile, “We _could_ ,”

Cyreus can feel the storm drawing closer. The warm wind is her breath as it tickles the shell of his ear. A low rumble of thunder is her chuckle as she watches him tremble.

“But I’d actually prefer the company of _unseemly varmint wards_ …”

Y/N retreats into the entrance of the Echealion, leaving a stunned and gaping Cyreus standing alone in the night.

_Friends, she meant,_ Cyreus thinks aloud.

  
  


『✭』

  
  


_“You’re a fool.”_

It wasn’t a particularly formal nor warm welcome, but it was somehow better than an echoing silence. Neither was the sharp pain that raptures her skin, burning and singing the flakes of snow that was clinging on from the outside, a bright light flaring and obscuring Y/N’s vision. She lets out a hot, sharp breath between her teeth as she is thwarted on her heels that drag against the palace grounds. 

The stone creates embedded lines in her trail, as the force of her step-mother’s power that suddenly attacks her nearly sends Y/N tumbling and rolling to the ground. The walls reverberate the sound of her guttural noise as it is knocked out of her chest, following the shrill and surge of the white light that left Gardenia’s hands that pull back.

Her step-mother is beautiful, without a doubt. But the ugliness in her mocking smile, the expression that knows that no matter how hard she wants to, Y/N can never do anything, shows itself against the candlelight that flickers. 

Gardenia’s mirthless smile is all Y/N sees as she rolls on her side, clutching and clawing at the spidering, glowing white cracks in her shoulder. Her power is a curse, a disease, spreading throughout her nerves that burn and cry. She remembers this too well, Y/N should be accustomed.

“Looks like you’ll be needing an extra hour of beauty sleep tonight,” Y/N hisses as she rolls her arm, “Or…more than an hour. What are you doing here?”

“Gods, you’re a stupid girl.” Gardenia chuckles breathily as she yanks Y/N by her bicep. And yet, even as Y/N is so violently pulled, she doesn’t get up, somehow finding it more dignifying than standing.

“What?” Y/N gazed up with firm eyes that blaze against her step-mother, “Finally going to kill me? Or are you going to take your precious time? You always liked to torture with your prey; makes the kill so much sweeter, doesn’t it?”

“You father informed you with your courtship with Cyreus Saeles—“

“—And I have been informed that it is still my decision after our _pathetic_ courting.”

Y/N stands, rising like the stars that threaten the sun. What she sees in Gardenia, what she has seen in many of her enemies’ eyes is ambition. She wonders what she will get out of this; what true power Gardenia would obtain if she were to marry Cyreus. Y/N’s mind begins to swarm with conflicting thoughts, thoughts of if she could actually consider marrying Cyreus had she not been here.

_No_ , Y/N breathes slowly, _no, she can’t ever win._

“ _Your_ decision?” Gardenia smiles, nodding slowly, “Do you really think that you’re in a position to oppose even if you refuse? Who do you think your father will listen to? His daughter that he agreed to marry off even when he knew her answer, or the fat dobber that’s been his friend for hundreds of years?”

Y/N bites her cheeks, tasting blood as she flicks her tongue, what remnant of silver now turned to lead. Inwardly, she wished she had been paying attention more back when her tacticians ever yelled at her for impudent recklessness; such snarky words she missed. 

The pain in her shoulder, the light that reached to the line of her jaw, is numb now.

“You will take responsibility for our family, one way or another. Married or not. You cannot expect to live a life so free of commitment. Is that what your father taught you? Did he teach you to be so bloodthirsty and wild? Or was it your _mother_ —“

Y/N raises a hand, striking her as hard as she could. 

The narrowed walls of the curving entrance are still singing with the impact.

As she opens her eyes, she sees Gardenia holding her red, swollen cheek. She had moved lengths away, where she assumed her strength had forced her to, her head twisting to reveal her wide, shimmering eyes. Her expression is agape, incredulous.

_She actually did it._

_By the gods, she_ **_actually_ ** _did it._

_“You—“_ Gardenia begins but never finishes, as Amwren Ramses seizes the wrist that she was struck with. 

Y/N’s face is sheer with sweat, the boiling blood in her face is no longer pink and flush with rage, but sunken and pale. Her throat is clogged by the shuddering, cold breath she manages. Her father’s grip is horrendously tight, where Y/N fears her hand could snap clean off of her arm. Yet, she doesn’t make any resistance, any sound as Ramses shakes her, forcing her to look at him. She doesn’t attempt to, she can’t.

“That is enough.”

His voice is low, so dangerously low. Y/N feels like a child again, wanting to kick and scream and get away from the palace as far as possible. She could remember the red sun in her face if she thought hard enough, running to the gardens or the woods, wherever there was sanctuary. But now, she doesn’t see red, but welling tears that brim the corners of her eyes, and doesn’t see a lick of remorse in her step-mother’s face. There was no smile of victory either.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Ramses asked thickly, eyes dark as onyx, full of rage, “Are you trying to kill what little honor you have left?”

_“I didn’t—“_ Y/N whispered brokenly, beginning to struggle, _“—She—“_

“—First, your brother goes missing. Then, you have the audacity to hit your mother? Is this being _filial_ , as I asked you?”

Y/N stops struggling.

_Mother?_

She didn’t intend to roar out that word. 

Her father stumbles on his heels backwards, away from his daughter who looks feral and vicious. He lets go of her wrist with an unexpected delicacy, the kind of gentle nature she missed as she yearned for her father to see the kind of monster Gardenia truly was. She didn’t want to be that monster.

Her unearthly voiced word rattled up the walls, the ceiling that was painted with such intricacy of wars and songs of the past, littering specks of its dust and paint chips from her volume. 

What Ramses sees, what Gardenia sees in Y/N is her wrath. Her true, raw wrath.

And it comes out laughing then spewing.

“Mother? _Mother!?_ Are you actually referring to her as someone like that? To her!?”

Y/N clutches her hair, her finger carving into her scalp. Her roots are being scraped, digging and leaving Y/N to wonder where, in her own damn mind, was she wrong. Every breath that leaves and comes is ragged, hotter than the cold. Ramses is almost fearful that Y/N could breathe fire, frightened of the flaming lightning that could come striking if he got too near.

_“Y/N—“_

“—How in the _world_ could a person be so ignorant? How in the world have you been turning a blind eye to this for all these centuries? After _everything_ I told you that she’s done to me? She hits me, you say stiff your upper lip. She berates me, you say just do what she says so it pleases her. Then, she has the audacity to slander my actual, true mother—the only woman besides the triplets—that I care about, _who I don’t even know_ , and you ask if I have lost my damn mind after I strike her once!?”

Y/N extends a finger at Gardenia, whose hand hurried slips away from her face. She is neither grinning nor frowning at her, just utterly solemn. Her eyes, those eyes that were once so full of pure, white light, have been suppressed into such pathetic pools of black like her husband, who she is standing so close to.

Y/N grits her teeth, her head curling over her shoulders as she braces herself for another breath. It comes in slower through her nostrils, and out faster as it is heavy with brokenly-toned words. She retracts her claws from her messy hair, tossed over her shoulders, where the last of the snow had finally melted over her fingers. 

Ramses and Gardenia look on, unraveled by the sight of Y/N dimming out her light.

“What _is_ it? What is it I don’t see in Gardenia, that you see? Why are you so prone to protect her from your own child? Are you just giving her what she wants?”

Y/N shakes her head, undeniably clear that she sees nothing in Gardenia that sparks even an ounce of pity.

_“Or, are you just that desperate to replace what you’ve lost?”_

Y/N didn’t look back as she ran. 

_“Y/N!”_

She ran hard, her hair taken by the wind that blew through the open pillars. The corridors, empty of servants or advisors, carried the sound of her thundering footsteps that pounded in her ears. She withheld the urge to sob, threatened by the very thought. Her days, years, centuries of being a soldier are against her, begging her not to give in—screaming at her to keep running.

Y/N escaped to the eastern wing, gasping, breathing hard as she slammed the grand doors shut, instantly slumping to the ground. The hall is completely empty, only lengths away from her quarters that sing to her, the pull of slumber calling for her to dream of peace. Of a family.

Of her mother.

Y/N embraces herself, her knees pressing against her chest that hammers against her ribs that still ache. She is suddenly conscious of her own body now, no longer quivering nor boiling inside. The glowing wound, still attached to her shoulder, cracking her skin with a horrid, white light makes her suck in a tight breath. She can feel it now; burning and tearing her apart. 

Ramses must’ve not seen it. They were both so angry.

A curse leaves her lips, an old tongue that Amisians used to speak, but was long forgotten now.

She cursed Gardenia, her father, the brother who was stupid enough to leave the palace unaccompanied, her family for being enablers to their own blood.

She cursed herself, thinking that she was inevitably the curse, no matter what she did or what happened around her.

_Y/N is a curse._

Her eyes blink upwards, taken by the stars that glimmer in the distance. Snow is hardly enough to keep her attention, its flakes not as pure as the lights that burn in the night. In the day, as well. Y/N is calmer, her breath being soothed by the lines and sparks, moved by its horrifically beautiful colors. They are vivid reminders of the beyond, where Y/N yearns desperately to be.

The stars in Amis are much more spectacular than any other planet. The air is strange, different from places like Xoharia, Hala, Othea, or Terra. Y/N believes that the stars are, in fact, those planets. Only from a distance, such a distance away.

And yet, Y/N can’t leave her home.

_“Cervantes is gone.”_

A voice speaks, of which Y/N is far too familiar with. Wisp is kneeling before her, leaving Y/N to wonder if he was concerned or being greeted—she hated being royalty.

“He left this morning and hasn’t come back yet.”

Y/N lifts her eyes, streamed with salted pearls with little worth. Its value is nothing now, as much as her pity as she finds her youngest brother at her side, laying his head on her shoulder. His hair is luckily darker than Gardenia’s golden, thankful that a piece of her didn’t have to follow as she stayed hidden away. She reached an arm around, draping around his shoulder to bring him closer.

_Rain_ , Y/N hums, _he smells like rain._

“I hit your mother a few minutes ago,” Y/N tells him, yet hardly getting a reaction, “I yelled at father, but I doubt he even listened to me. I’m sorry.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I’m not angry.” Wisp rolls his shoulders, his eyes gleaming with indifference.

Even if Wisp was the youngest of the seven children, he was the most understanding; mature. His level of perspective could not be obtained by Y/N even if she lived another eon. There was always a shadow, Y/N reminds herself, someone who was always there to watch and help her as she fell. A tuft of darkish-blonde hair, a storm that brews in the distance, lands away.

“Cervantes headed for Irie. I think he was going to fetch you,” Wisp shook his head, _“Idiot.”_

“You’re a bit of an idiot, too,” The ghost of a smile graces Y/N’s lips, “You didn’t stop him. Why didn’t you? He’s not as hot-headed as Morok. You would’ve had a chance.”

“Yes, but he’s stubborn,” Wisp pouts, drawing circles in the stone, “He only listens to you. When you’re angry, of course. He called you the Beast, once. And, when you’re not…he’s as stubborn as a dragon that tasted his first man.”

Y/N rests her head atop his, a fleeting laugh leaving her, empty of effort. The only genuine feelings are caged in her eyes, where Wisp can’t see as he hears her pitifully. He doesn’t like when his sister is like this, he doesn’t think he’s seen this side of her at all. He is left to wonder if this is the first time she’s been so bare, so vulnerable. 

Or, if Krow was the only person who ever saw her like this, the only person she actually trusted. 

“All of you are,” She chuckles, “All of you are so stubborn. All of you are such stubborn, little dragons. But…I suppose that’s how children are. I suppose I am partly to blame.”

Wisp thinks of the times when Y/N was ever cruel, and yet, despite her reputation, she never was. He had only ever known Y/N to be angered by his mother, finding no such memory of him or any of his siblings making her enraged. He somewhat cursed the narrow whispers, the gossip that lets his mind whirl and reel with impunity. 

He sees it as a sad thought, frowning.

“Were you like that, too? I mean, were you called the Wild Star when you were my age? You don’t talk about your childhood much.”

“I don’t?” Y/N inquires, her mind settling with a forgotten eon, one she didn’t even notice she had left behind, “I suppose I didn’t. I’ve been so caught up with taking care of the lot of you…”

Wisp has a way of getting things, as Y/N sees, his eyes twinkling with interest that faintly glow. His irises are brimming with a gentle magenta, reminding Y/N of the iridescence of flowerblight, arguably his most favorite season. The trees would fade a mysterious green, its canopies from below would shine golden like the towers of the palace, and the flowers would grow big and small, sweet and fragrant. 

His eyes now are similar to his fondness for that delightful time, as he looks at his sister, wanting to hear more.

_A curious, little thing,_ Y/N smiles, sighing with little contentment.

“Well then, if you’re that curious, then I’ll tell you that I was _the_ _most_ stubborn person you could ever meet,”

Wisp giggles into her arm, eyes fluttering above as he imagines his elder-sister as a child.

“So many expectations. So many rules I had to follow. So many lessons I had to learn to become queen. It didn’t mean anything to me, but it meant everything for father. He didn’t want me to marry some prince and live like the lady in the ballads. He wanted me to ride and hunt and kill and fight. I suppose that’s his own fault,”

Wisp frowns, finding it hard to believe that his tolerant, benevolent father was ever like that. Yet, he continued to listen as Y/N spoke again.

“He told me once, that on the day I was born, at the end of the last, most terrible and wildest stormblight, mere moments before the dawn, the moon and stars crossed paths with the sun. No one knew if the sun covered the moon or if the moon covered the sun. But, in the end, it didn’t matter. An eclipse illuminated the storm that birthed me into the world. Father said that it was the most beautiful thing that he had ever seen.”

“That sounds terrifying,” Wisp argued in a murmur, quieter now, sleepy, “But, I suppose that phenomena made you what you are…a dark…blinding storm.”

Y/N hummed as she pressed a kiss into his hair, eyes filled with torturous memories.

Wisp leans closer against her, finding her warmth comforting as his cheek rested upwards against her neck. She was soft and glowing, like a star in the distance. As he feels her heat, Wisp is lulled away slowly in a slumber’s embrace, somehow much more comforting than his sister.

“Do you think,” Wisp stops to yawn, a hand between them as he rubs his eyes, “Cervantes will come back? Do you think…Do you think the Dogs got him?”

Y/N doesn’t respond, silent as she watches the darkness move.

“They won’t hurt him if we pay them not to, right?”

_Hungry dogs are never loyal._


	9. Hiemal Fire 「9」

##  **𝐒𝐢𝐱 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬**

Krow arrived in the eastern wing at the crack of dawn, running through the corridors that seemed to be swept with an inch of snow by its balconies, overlooking the gardens that were powdered with white. Even if it was so early, the world was busy as they remained restless during the night, preparing for such a big event—a seasonal change. He wished he yearned for sleep, for just one, peaceful slumber.

The white, twisting towers of the palace didn’t seem to make much of a visual difference as its smooth, curving top platforms ran down with slopes of snow. Only what was below caught the worst of it; heaps of miniature avalanches rained down on the spiraling trees that stood perched in front of many of the passages to the palace, where guards at their posts couldn’t help but be buried in its white piles every hour. 

The White Hollow woods, several hundred acres of white were nothing but mist in the beyond from such a distance as Krow passed by, without so much as a second glance. He was mostly comforted by the warmer color of the halls, though he did not appreciate the pine and snowflake wreaths that were strung up along the varying gold columns.

Servants scrambled with varying blue and white silk ribbons imported from the Elysium to hang on every ceiling in the palace, careful to be arranged in spacious and orderly fashions. Young maiden girls giggled and skipped down every turning corner, their small hands were carrying smooth and snuffed leathers, soft fabrics from every region, embroidered with gold, pale pink corals, and storm flowers. Advisors consorting with each other, both arguing and agreeing over even the smallest of matters for the nightly event, making such a big ruckus.

Krow made his way past them all, tugging harder at the wolfish fur cloak that draped over his shoulders, trying his best to air out the chilling breeze from within the thick strands as he strode to Y/N’s residence in the palace, cursing how she chose to occupy the farthest and highest tower. 

Yet, he already knew her various, ambitious reasoning; wanting to be as close to the sky as possible—very much similar to how she was even as a child. 

Amis was potent with appraisal upon the beginning of snowblight. The air was fragrant with mystifying flowers that bloomed over the frozen lakes and rivers coated with its blue pollen, the crisp wilderness of burning logs of wood that were thrown into festive bonfires, and the constant aroma of frozen rain. It stuck to Krow’s cloak as he came in, bursting through Y/N’s quarters with an impatient huff, yanking the leather gloves from his hands that did little to keep the skin underneath warm.

_Snowblight was delightful, yes, if one was properly prepared._

“I spoke with the Sand Hounds and gave them a warrant,” Krow breathes, almost angrily as he fussed with his strapping, black coat, “But before I could even get into the temple, they told me he was let go,”

Krow threw his fur and leathers on Y/N’s bed, his hands reaching up to card the snow out of his hair. His fingers, his skin was unseemly cold. His cheeks, flush and damp were peppered with snowflakes, angrily batting at them with his palms as he attempted to warm himself with frustrations. It was even harsher as he traveled hours before, finding it so utterly bizarre that even the Irie made his spine tremble from the passing breeze.

“I tried to speak with Aruul, but he wasn’t even _bloody_ there. Can you believe that? I swear, it’s a conspiracy against you—your family! The nerve.”

As Krow finally untangled his fingers from his dark roots, his hands left damp and shaky, his body became released of frustrated tension as he laid his eyes on a shadow resting beside the grandeur of a large, protruding balcony. His eyes, so alive with green and worry, settled and cleared the figure before him, approaching closer with careful footwork. 

Y/N felt like she was standing at the edge of the world, watching the citadel and all of its regions move past her as if her very life was suddenly a fleeting thing. The pale and dark blotched colors were alight with pristine white, the tops of every building in the Echealion was covered in a blanket of snow. The tuffs of great, strong trees that circled the city that was just beyond the walls of the Seeing Gates had all but caught her eye. Its beauty, her home was a thing of benevolence and purity, while the foundations under were malicious and filled her with grief. 

_All of them_ , Y/N thinks as she closes her eyes that sting with tears, _all of them…_

Tears melted the snowflakes on her lashes.

Her head was still focused, terribly trained and stuck on the screaming words that echoed through her head, coated in her father’s voice, then in her own. Her mind was reeling with the previous night, their argument, the first time Y/N ever stood against Gardenia and her father.

She shouldn’t have said those things, Y/N frowns, she shouldn’t have yelled at them, as they did no such thing to ignite a spark of justice. 

Y/N wonders if striking Gardenia brought said justice, but she continued to think, she could only find a pitiful silence. 

Krow approaches from behind, mounting the thickly stairs that led up to the balcony that she stood alone on. When he stood from afar, Y/N was blazing, obscure and beautiful. But as he came beside her, he could see just how demoralized she really was. It was like that on most days, even back then.

He is weary of being too close, worried she might collapse into mist that wavers to the beyond as he rests a hand on her shoulder, thankful as she doesn’t flinch. But, her mouth opens.

“You came back,” Y/N speaks quietly, “Why did you come back?”

Krow’s own lips twitch as he attempts to form a fitting answer, trying to look past his spite that crawled quickly up the walls of his throat. He could remember the cocky smirk of Cyreus, how he looked down upon him, depicting him as a mere ‘ward’ and ‘commoner’. He could only wonder why Amwren Ramses, their king, would ever choose a man like that for his daughter.

But he didn’t, Krow knows, he could never choose anyone for her.

“It's dawn, now. I’ve been waiting for you since you rode off with the prince, and I don’t intend to break any of our promises. When Wisp told me that your brother had gone missing, I went back to the Irie. And thereafter, I tried to get back to you as fast as I could.”

A glimmer reaches his eyes, in hers. 

“Did you go to the Irie for me?” Y/N questioned, still not looking at Krow whose feet curved inwards.

“I—“

“— _No_ , you didn’t,” Y/N clenches her jaw, “You went there for Gardenia. You went there on her orders.”

Krow closes his eyes, lowering his head apologetically, even if she did not see. However, her silence is no longer there, but her heavy sigh that makes him stifle and rise, seeing her now as her lips tug downward. 

An expression was the beginning, the start of her walls that begin to crumble.

“I told you not to fall prey to her,” Y/N’s voice grows more coarse, “I told you that she’ll turn you against me the first chance she gets. She might cage me and put you to use and I just—“

Krow tenses as her harsh breath takes a toll on him.

“—I just…want for us to be _safe_. You protect me all the time and…quite frankly, it’s annoying that you don’t think about yourself. As much as I want to be angry with you…I can’t. I don’t think I ever will be. All I can do is thank you.”

Very nearly, Y/N weeps.

“I know you care about them. I know you love them just as much as I do. But…if you could just…do anything from now on…just for our sake?”

Krow’s mouth presses firmly together, trying its hardest to pull into at least, a trying smile.

“I will,” His voice is thick, genuine, and warm, “I swear. I promise.”

Even as his voice reaches her, his oath, he sees no light brewing yet, no storm to be watchful of. 

“Y/N,” Krow begins, receiving a reaction as her eyes twitch glossily, “It’s going to be okay. It may not seem like it now, but it will. We just have to be patient. We just have to get through tonight and then, all will be quiet. All will be peaceful…Let’s just…Let’s wait another day.”

A hand rests atop his, the cause that makes Krow’s heart thrum in his chest in both bewilderment and relief. Her touch is so unimaginably warm, where her presence alone now is enough to travel from up Krow’s arms and all the way down the soles of his feet. He no longer trembles at the breath of the cold, smiling now, still as he watches as Y/N turns to him, crookedly beaming.

“Very well then, let’s create chaos tonight.”

  
  


『✭』

  
  


They left only a few hours before the beginning of the ceremony, a while before sundown.

The sands of the Irie dunes are carried in drifting patterns by cooler breezes, free of such blinding blankets of snow that covers the rest of the regions of Amis. Though there was no speck of white, snowblight was truly here, as the company of traveling parties traversed more frequently through the auburn valleys, now free from the mundane scorch and humidity of the raging sun. 

Vendors would now expand their wares along a rockier path that revealed itself in the cooler weathers, where it lead to the Dagan Domain and various other territories that were adrift with an orange wind, where the wandering outsiders that would come to the west would be intrigued enough to give a profit.

Jewels, foods, fabrics, animals, weapons…

Y/N ignored them all, finding that she was perfectly equipped enough to traverse to the Qhyros temple without the need to spend a single coin. She had a job to do, and she intended to take up only a few minutes as she headed to the Dagan Domain, where the Qhyros temple awaited.

_Cervantes_ , Y/N groaned inwardly, _what have you gotten yourself into?_

As Y/N passed through the numerous vendors, nothing but the bustling noises of pointless conversation filled her ears, irking her enough to rub her temples in frustration. She was at least thankful there were no traces of sweat running down her fingers, unlike the day before. The domain was still quite a distance away, and she couldn’t help but pick up her ambled pace as she kicked her heels into the curving, sandstone path, letting a resounding crunch resound under her boot.

The pleasant aromas of wines and steaming meats tempted her hands to twitch, to pick a coin out of her pouch that dangled in her pocket, yet she carried on with a determined gleam in her eye. She couldn’t remember, nor understand why she decided to bring any riches in the first place.

Though the treasures of the west were indeed so vast and plentiful, much like the other regions, the variety distracted her from her mission. The objective began to grow clearer the more she carried herself farther away from the stands. Finally, she reached the end of the valley, the road had stopped being bordered by resources, people, and wealth.

Y/N took her hand away from her damp face, her fingers lingering slowly, tracing down the edges of her jawline, eyes blinking widely as her focus was taken from the noisy vendors from far behind. Her hand fell and smacked her side, where she almost halted in her footsteps, nearly astounded at how freely she could move within the breeze. The shared movements between her turn and the wind was smooth and calm, though they were in stark contrast with the princess’s face, one that was twisted and knitted into a hard furrow.

There was no one there. No one behind her. Nobody to look back to.

What she could remember, what little she could, was the feeling of eyes burning into her back. Hotter than the cold sun, harder than the stone path she trudged. And yet, no one followed her heels. 

Her palm didn’t feel tight, nothing was there, no one was holding her hand anymore.

_Hand?_

**_Hand!?_ **

Y/N threw her head back to the winding path, with no one but strangers standing in her wake. 

_Where did he go!?_

_“Wisp!?”_ Y/N called out, breaking into a run as she retraced her fast steps.

Seeing as it was only a straight line, Y/N found it astoundingly horrific that she couldn’t recount where he had last been on the path, the last place they were when she last checked to see if Wisp was still behind, holding her hand. 

_Stupid, it was a stupid idea!_

Y/N’s half-blood moved in swift currents in her veins, synchronizing with her legs that carried her far back along the trail. 

Initially, she intended to travel to the Qhyros temple alone, even denying the accompaniment of Krow, at first, who agreed to cover her absence from her other family members while she was gone.

However, fate revealed itself as cunning as she was caught in the sight of her youngest brother, who was determined to go with her to the domain. Thinking it would spare her from any potential dangers she might encounter within the face of Aruul, should they go together. Although Y/N’s assurance to Wisp was convincing as can be, Wisp remained adamant and ended up following behind her heels to the Irie.

Now that he was nowhere to be seen, Y/N was certain that she either failed fate’s test of maternal instinct, or that she sought out the enemy in the wrong place.

_Of course_ , Y/N thought bitingly, _of course it was a stupid idea to bring him!_

“Wisp!?” Y/N continued to call, “Wisp!? Where are you!?”

Those who clung to the side of the path watched as the eldest princess continued to storm her way along the rocky, yellow path. A fire followed her trail, leaving those to wonder, who watched her bolt so quickly away, if water turned to steam and into flames.

Though the princess did have her ways with waters, they wondered if Y/N was the manifestation of some unnatural, blazing force. And yet, they were left to imagine what truly rests in her bastard blood.

Y/N reached a particularly shabby vendor, eyeing a particularly short individual standing so stiffly in the front. There was no sign, but the chipping and splitting wood pillars were nailed with swaying fabrics of many colors, some looked velvet-like while others looked tough and scaly. Y/N could only guess that whoever owned such a run-down vendor was a tanner who was indeed struggling.

However, Y/N had doubted her own thoughts as she looked ahead.

Behind the wooden counter that was smeared with dried blood, was a fattened man, his large fist raised to the sun where he would swing it down to the child like dusk.

_Who would dare to harm a child in front of me?_ Y/N wondered who the boy was, yet was taken by the divinity of the wind.

Y/N smelled the air, the wind that carried the moisture that smelt of rain, eyes thinning into feral, trained lights.

Wisp had been saved by his eldest sister from being hit in the head. Not a speck of skin reached his messy, bronze-golden hair. His tuff was only inches from his own sister’s hand that had gripped the wrist of the salesman he intended to buy from, yet, he wondered what he could've said or done to receive a back-handed response. His head lifted slowly, a meek expression colliding with the strong and dark expression of the Wild Star, whose teeth bared its pearls, appearing to Wisp as if his sister grew hideously large fangs.

Now, he understood Cervantes, his brother who called his own half-blood, The Beast.

“What do you think you’re doing!?” 

_Him or the salesman?_

A strangled cry elicited from the man who yielded against Y/N’s hysterical strength, taking form in her hand that bent his wrist so crookedly, one wrong twist could end up with a severed hand completely. He fought to stay still, yet he fought to move away from her. He shot a glare at Y/N who thrusted his arm backwards, sending the man stumbling into his shelves where a series of other leathers and skins fell and sank into the sand.

Before Wisp could make a noise, Y/N caught his shoulder.

“I was looking for you!” She growled, “I thought you went missing, too! What are you doing here?”

“Tell this kid to stay away from the _soel’dranis!_ ” The man screamed as he pushed himself from the shelves.

Y/N let go of her brother’s shoulder, not lurching at the man again but did not spare him from a towering glare. He refused to shrink from her gaze, but gestured a finger to the boy who lowered his head at his mention. Y/N’s brow knitted, thinking of the word ‘ _soel’dranis_ ’, an old word from the elder tongue. 

She mouthed the word that brought a certain warmth to her tongue and a chill against her teeth.

_“Dragons?”_ Y/N spoke aloud, veering her head back to Wisp who shrunk back, “He wanted to buy _a_ _dragon?_ ”

“The boy wanted to buy _all_ of them! Alive!” The man continued with his booming volume, “ _Soel’dranis_ are meant to be _skinned! Eaten! Not pets!_ _Soel’dranis_ are _weapons_ , boy! _Merchandise! Not companions!_ ”

“They’re not meant to die by a butcher’s knife either.” Wisp huffed and Y/N seemed to agree.

The salesman’s skin was sun-kissed, dark and burly with a pudgy face, reminding her of the Desolate Dog she had the pleasure of beating into yesterday. It was hard not to mistake him for that man, where Y/N found herself reminded of her objective. And yet, as she glared at Wisp who sulked, plagued with the thought of a seemingly innocent creature meeting the blade of a butcher’s knife, Y/N sighed heavily.

“Show them to me.” Y/N commanded, watching as the salesman’s face twisted agape.

“You—“

“—I am Y/N Skaraeith, the eldest daughter of the King. You have no right to defy me.”

_Gods, she hated saying that._

The man’s face faltered into a displeased and hearty frown, a huff leaving his chest with the emphasis of a guttural sound. He bent over and disappeared behind his counter, before rising again with a wooden crate that was smeared with brown blood, scratch marks, and charred blotches—shrieking and hissing. It was astounding that such fiery and wild creatures could remain caged by mere wood, but Y/N chose not to speak of his trapping methods, watching as he pried open the hatch of the cage and stuck his hand inside.

Admittedly, Wisp was somewhat hoping to see a gory sight; the man’s hand bitten and chewed off as he pulled it back out again, something like that. But only mere moments later, he was revealed to be unscathed, holding the bodice of a small, partially-mangled ball of golden and bronze leather. The little prince held his breath as he watched the leather lay in his hands, fearing that it was not a dragon at all, but only the remnants of its butchered skin.

Y/N stepped closer, paying no mind to the man as she enclosed her hands around the clump of gleaming scales, lifting it gently before holding it up to her face.

And then…

_“Sister!”_

**Fwoosh!**

A plume of blazing-red fire blasted next to Y/N’s head, where the ball of leather unfurled its pellucid, cream-gold wings and sprung its sinuous, bronze frilled neck, ivory horns and talons glistening under the cold sun. A great wind of warmth enveloped Y/N’s face that turned red and sweating, taken by complete surprise of the small beast that tried to melt her skin off her bones. Those who stood in the distance who took interest in such commotion, cried and scrambled with fear as the cloud of flames filled and dispersed in the air. 

_Y/N was quick enough to move her hands away, thank the gods,_ Wisp breathed a sigh of relief.

The dragon’s leathery cream stretched while the gold slithered. The creature curved its head to the prince who stiffened, paralyzed by the gaze of two, serpentine-like spots of scarlet. The creature came quickly to perch on the prince’s shoulder, springing from Y/N’s hands that came together to bat the remaining fires from her hair. She did not mind the creature who stirred so curiously to her brother, as Wisp took to the small beast carefully, smiling fondly as it chirped.

“See? Not pets,” The salesman growled and rolled his eyes, “Too dangerous.” 

Even though Y/N listened, she did not mind the creature who stirred so curiously to her brother, as Wisp took to the small beast carefully, smiling fondly as it chirped.

“I think it likes you.” Y/N spoke as she beat down the last of the fires crawling towards her neck, smiling faintly as her brother rubbed his finger under its throat.

“They’re on sale. If you buy them now, we’ll forget this. You’ll get a fresh batch of dragon-leather skins.”

Y/N glanced to her brother who desperately looked to her, eyes shining with hope. The sight of it made her smile fleetingly.

“No, there’ll be no need for that. This dragon might not be fit as a pet, but my brother can be friends with it.” Y/N defied as she fished into her pocket, pulling out a cloth sack of dragoon coins onto the counter, ignoring the man’s bewildered and starving glimmer in his expression.

One dragoon coin can buy fifty legions of armies. There were ten in the sack.

“We’ll take all of them. Even the ones that haven’t come yet. I’ll make a place for them in my gardens.” 

The man rose a brow, glaring. “What’s in it for me? Besides these gold coins, what makes you think I’ll give you one of them? They’re the top breed, valuable assets. They come from _Sinrior_ , you know where that is, don’t you?”

“The _Elseland_ , yes, I know where that is.” Y/N snapped impatiently, folding her arms.

“They come from the land you and the other Skaraeiths don’t rule. They’re powerful, expensive. They cost ten times more than those rags you’ve got on—”

The dragon gave an alerted hiss as it saw Y/N’s blade, the one on the prince’s shoulder, brandishing its sharp teeth. The tip of her weapon pointed at the throat of the man who stiffened, swallowing thickly, feeling the sharp point dig into the apple of his throat that wavered slowly. 

“—You’ll get to keep your life, _poacher_. Don’t think I don’t know what you are. You should be on your knees thanking me, allowing you to do time in our palace as a tanner, instead of wasting away in an old cell. Do you understand? Is that much enough for you?”

Wisp could not see the expression Y/N gave him, but assumed that he was already convinced, seeing as his hands jerked towards the wooden crate again, subsequently pulling out five more unfurling balls of colorful leathers.

The first was particularly large, maybe the biggest of the nest, horns and talons as black as the night sky, coated with tough steel blue, black, and gray scales, baby-blue drapes in the membrane of its wings. Along with varying others, a long, jagged scar ran down one of its eyes that glistened pools of molten gold. It was the first one out of the cage, and the first one that took to the sky, lingering close to Y/N who trilled loudly and curiously.

“Aren’t you a peculiar thing?” Y/N admired as she lifted her blade away from the man, bringing up a hand where the dragon perched atop, chirping lowly. 

Its scales were warm and tough, the scars of battle shone on various spots of its body, as big as a small mutt. It must have fought for some time with others. It weighed much, like a batch of ripe apples resting on her knuckles. The creature stayed still, its expression was calm, eyes glassy and wise; interested.

“You must be their leader.” Y/N observed as she watched a few others take flight.

The second was as green as emeralds, horns and claws that were a dark teal, even under the bright sun. With a twirl of its scarred underbelly, the creature swiftly sprung from the man’s hand and soared above, stretching its black frills and peach-pink membrane. A third one followed just as fast, if not faster. Its scales and frills ran with orange and bronze, darker than the creature that rested on Wisp’s shoulder, visibly smaller, horns and claws that were brown as rich soil. A blue followed after, slower paced with its bruised lavender wings. Its sharper black horns and claws scraped lightly against its siblings, of which all three had similar jet-black eyes.

A sudden stream of silver climbed from down the counter, at a frightening speed, nipping its needle-filled jaws at Wisp’s foot, catching its lime-green eyes and light-violet talons and ivories, jagged scars littered its lilac wings that flapped as it crawled up its leg. Finally, the last one, hissing and thrashing wildly in the man’s hold and fought valiantly to pry itself away. Once it did, the red, little thing tackled the orange one, spreading its yellowish-gold hued wings before digging its claws into the wooden vendor.

Y/N looked at them all curiously, as well as the dragon in her palm. Her eyes were weary of the beasts that came together in a distant huddle, wondering what sort of external force had freed them from their cage, saving them from the end of a knife, much like its many other brothers and sisters. 

“You think you can carry them all?” Y/N asked Wisp with a light tease, seeing her brother turn and nod confidently.

The grey one gave its first roar, singing to its brothers and sisters, the dawn of their new-found freedom.

  
  


『✭』

  
  


Wisp had named the golden-bronze beast, _Sunny_ , discovering that the little thing was female. 

Throughout their journey to the Dagan domain, the little one nipped and tugged fiercely at his index finger, leaving Wisp to giggle yielding at such little strength in her jaws. In his arms, he carried the blue female, the orange female, and male green beasts, of which he called them, _Needle, Pebble, and Leaf_ —reminded of the triplets. The red male he called _Flare_ , of which Y/N found it rather humorous as the fiery thing reminded them both of Morok. And the male silver, his tail curling so tightly around the prince’s arm, he called _Gust_.

Their journey, even after they entered through the domain, was lively with the music of their trills.

Those who dwelled in the bazaars were stopping to admire such creatures, as well as being graced with the presences of two beings of royalty. Y/N scarcely knew of their interests, but thought best not to dwell or peak their thoughts. She seemed to be yet again the topic of the domain, as some who had recognized her spoke of how she beat a band of Desolate Dogs in the bazaar, leaving Y/N to succumb to a cringe writhing up her spine.

She found that she would rather be remembered as a princess, in that instant, not someone who caused a ruckus in a public area.

By then, the beasts became impatient, Needle, Pebble, and Gust took to the sky, soaring close towards the two siblings who traveled onwards to the temple, while Flare shrieked, jumping from Wisp’s leg and latched his claws on Y/N’s head. She winced at his talons that scraped into her scalp, but knew he meant no real harm.

They continued up the steps of the foundation of stairs that lead to the entrance of the Qhyros temple. It seemed more brilliant as the sun melted into the top of the valley, painting the sands and stone from sunlit yellow to a brilliant orange.

The terrik hounds all but whimpered and stuffed their tails between their legs at the scaly beasts that hissed as they passed, their wings unfurling into a great length, some taking off into the sky while others rested on their two Amisian perches. Y/N found them somewhat entertaining, yet troubled with the impending excuse she would have to tell them for bringing such noisy creatures into their home, let alone ask for them to become her sibling’s companions. 

The gardens, serving as a sanctuary for Y/N and many other fauna, was a perfect home for them, even if they weren’t allowed inside the palace. Y/N knew that Wisp would want to keep them close, as they were so wild and wounded, not animals but beings made of flesh and fire. Y/N would have to make preparations right away, regardless of her father or Gardenia’s answer. 

Ramses nor Gardenia weren’t so taken with the idea of pets.

Y/N’s lips fell into a frown, biting at her cheeks that puffed red at the thought that nearly made her stop walking completely. Words, all the words she was worried to say became nothing but a mere revolt. An anger rose, as the grey one sensed, chirping in return. 

_Who cares what they have to say? Who cares if they deny them of these creatures? Of anything?_

Y/N could see and feel the grey stir comfortably, shifting his wings that lightly gilded against her neck. It was smooth, comforting, and warm. She remembered a lesson her father once taught her, saying that dragons were stars that swallowed their light—their fire—and began to walk and fly within Amis. Of course, it was only a mere fable. 

The grey was the largest and oldest of his kin, much like Y/N and her siblings. She saw her own face as she stared into the gold, lost in the black slits. The grey did not burn as it nestled into her hair, she did not fear the little one. However, Y/N could not deny that the grey breathed a fire, a blaze surely more fearsome than a star.

Y/N and Wisp came to the entrance, finding two Sand Hounds posted at the doors, with Y/N thanking the gods that they weren’t the same Dogs as last time. All that she needed to hope for was the absence of a certain, insultingly rude tyke.

The guards’ metal, canine helmets dipped in the presence of their princess and prince while the ends of their spears tapped hard into the stone as they passed through. They murmured a greeting, a tongue that Y/N could not decipher quickly enough as they crossed into the grand parlor, hoping that Aruul would be here at this hour.

 _At least they weren’t turned away instantly_ , Y/N thought, _unlike Krow._

The parlor had a peculiar odor, potent of sage and wildflowers, unlike their last visit. Someone must be doing something, Y/N had assumed, wondering if there was an enchantment running through the walls or within the trembling earth. From what she understood, Aruul was gifted in the spiritual arts, counting the other sorcerers that dwelt frequently in the Irie. Some have looked down on such skills, but in Y/N’s case, she couldn’t find a reason to care.

However, the odor brought a sense of discomfort to the grey, who growled and perked his head high. Y/N had a different sense than a beasts’ but decided to follow his instinct, reaching a hand over her head where Flare squirmed at her fingers that stroked his scaly back.

What was beyond was left for Y/N to discover, wanting to hide all of it from Wisp.

“Wait here,” Y/N commanded, prying herself from Flare’s claws, placing the squirming beast on Wisp’s arm, “Don’t move.”

“Where are you going?” Wisp frowned as he struggled to shift his red wings, “I don’t want to be alone here.”

“It’ll only be a second. Don’t break anything.”

Y/N seemed assured with the presence of the grey that slunk around the nape of her neck, hiding his snout in her hair. She did not bother to remove him as the creature kept perfectly silent, beginning to climb up the twin flight of stairs that each had a corridor of doors at either end. Y/N made a decision, taking the eastern passage, keeping herself aware of her surroundings. 

The temple was dark, aligned with scarce candlelight that stayed fastened to the walls between various shrines. She had some knowledge of the temple’s structure, understanding that they were meant for the children of Qhyros family, along with many other generations of Irieth rulers. Like the other regions, many wars and many families perished, leaving but another to carry the land’s legacy. 

In this case, it was the Qhyros’s time of rule.

She could not feel a shift in the air; no one but herself. Y/N frowned, eyes darting in every which way, fearing that she might be imagining noises in her peripheral. And yet, the grey that trilled was there to bring her to reality, his hiss was the only true noise there was.

Y/N breathed a sigh of relief, taking another step.

And just like that, Y/N was swallowed in darkness. 

  
  


『✭』

The smell of blood crept into Y/N’s dream, a dream of white, black, and raging storms. She imagined she dreamt of her birth, the first day she was brought into the world of glory and chaos. She did not feel fear, as she was fear. Unfolding before her eyes were frightened faces, features that she could barely remember, wishing so desperately if she could. 

_Why? Why did she need to think so hard?_

_She remembers their_ **_names_ ** _…she remembers…_

The blood was aromatic, seeping into her nose that startled her awake. She used to be indifferent with such a feat. However, it seemed that the phase had not yet passed, even if she was an adult now, long, long away from childhood. Her eyes shut as fast as she opened them, blinded by a light that surged her head with twitching fear and puzzlement, for the light did not have mercy.

“Where…” Y/N tried to speak, but was betrayed by her failing strength that seemed to seize her body.

_Burns…something burns_ , Y/N smelt smoke, feeling what she could around her wrists that were bound, rubbing together, something scratching, burning, and digging into her skin.

_Rope_ , Y/N concluded, nodding slowly as her head lifted to the light. 

“Come on, now,” A voice spoke, of what Y/N could hear their smile, “You’re stronger than that, _Edolesi_ …Yes, there we are.”

_Don’t call me that,_ Y/N thinks instinctively to who she can’t see, her eyes gathering the light that seemed to grow smaller the more she focused; a spotlight, only a mere spotlight, and next was olive skin and grey. Her heart spoke to her carefully, a voice not made of sound, but of thought, speaking wistfully of warnings, of which Y/N had trouble remembering.

_“Aruul,”_ Y/N coughs as she greets him, “Nice of you to let me drop by.”

The Khrosa is not alone, as Y/N drifts her head further to the darkness, past Aruul who stands too close for comfort. The only exit is the door that stands at the corner of the small, windowless room. Two Dogs stood at each side, wielding their classical spears and dog helmets. Y/N glared narrowly, finding the overwhelming stench again. Not of blood, but of sage and flowers. Aruul reeked of it.

Smoke, there is smoke, too. But Y/N cannot see it. She fears it is herself. She fears she is under an enchantment that’s collapsing her body, cursing its arts.

“It’s wonderful that you came, princess. I was beginning to think you become smart and decided not to interfere. But, I suppose I overestimated you, Edolesi.”

_Is this a dream?_ Y/N asked herself, wishing it was so. 

Someone yelled so sharply just now, Y/N thought next.

A hand struck her, leaving a red slit on her bottom lip, dripping blood. Yet, Y/N felt nothing.

_Something was wrong._

Smoke…where is it coming from?

“I’ve got to be honest, this could have gone much worse.” Y/N finds her rough voice, finding Aruul slinking around in the dark, taking notice that the light had moved.

“Did you expect to have blood on your hands? This early?” He almost sounds disappointed.

Y/N moves her tongue around her cheek, behind her teeth that seeps in gray and white. She could not taste anything, but her eyes reddened. Her nerves pulsate dangerously, worried that a vein might burst. Her hands work, wanting to get out of the ropes that burn.

“I don’t know. Wanna take a chance and find out?”

A laugh fills her ears, cackling and foul. It sounded like the gasping cry of a dying animal.

“Always so spry, even in the most unfortunate situations. No wonder you stepped down as an heir.”

Her mind clears in an instant, free of struggle, where her senses heighten at a great length. Aruul can see that she is challenging him now, watching her eyes filter with thoughts of escape. Her movements that he had seen moments before are slower now, no longer prying at the rope. A smile graces his lips.

“I had my reasons.”

“Oh, I’m sure you did.”

Aruul’s voice is much colder now, colder than ice.

“All of your reasons…all of your choices led you to where you are now. Pity.”

An anger stirs in her eyes, leaving Y/N’s nerves quivering in her veins. She can’t smell anything now, pondering halfway if the enchantment had been broken since he had provoked her. Y/N wanted to be willful and strong, but it was hard to face him, regardless if she was tied down.

“What about you?” She asks, “What’s your reason for keeping me here? What about your choices?”

All Y/N sees now is his strong, broad back, flowing with such an unkempt mane of black hair. She is reminded of a great, big cat that lurks in the northern reaches of the desert, bigger than a volnan felidaes, bloodthirsty and lustful for carnage. He is called the First Claw, Y/N reminds herself, a family of excellent prowess in the field. The sands are their domains, she is in theirs, she fears she may not have a route of escape.

She doesn’t want to sink.

“My reasons…my choices…are not like yours,” As he turns, Y/N is taken by his softer eyes, “I’m not going to take your life. I have the choice to spare lives, Y/N. Unlike you.”

_Wisp_ , Y/N suddenly thinks, beginning to move again, _where is he? Where is Cervantes?_

_“W—“_

_“—You…You_ really are the worst about this world,” Aruul is pleased by her shocked silence, “Had you actually taken the chance of being our Queen, this planet would've fallen into ruins. Just another planet to take in your conquest. You would've fought for that throne. You never could take it so easily. Not by birthright, not by pacifism, not by yourself. Your siblings...your siblings are truer Amisians than you'll ever be.”

Aruul drinks every inch of her reaction, yet finding unsatisfied as she does not weep. Not like before. Y/N only remains firm and solemn, trained and keen. The fire in her eyes is not blazing, but smoldering. A smoke, and only a smoke is what she is. What she feels.

“If you really feel that way, then why did you take one of them as a hostage?”

Aruul kneels, while Y/N knows it is neither of greeting nor concern, his smile is trying but constant. 

A loud, metallic sound is heard, but Y/N chooses not to look. She hears struggling voices, yelling and crying, the sound of clothes wrinkling, stumbling light footsteps, and feels a weight drop behind her back. A sensation of relief pours into her, alive with the chill of curiosity and worry running down her spine that presses against her brothers.

_They’re safe_ , Y/N thanks the gods, _they’re both safe!_

“You three…you’re going to be my three dogs fetching the kill.”

Y/N can feel Cervantes’s head swivel, trying to see Aruul who rose properly. He was bound in rope as well, but did not give off the faintest whiff of smoke. The aromatic smell of blood calmed Y/N, who breathed in the sweetness. Her hands wavered, cold and true, but Aruul kept watchful of all three. 

_The dragons_ , Y/N thinks, _are they still with Wisp?_

“Cervantes was only the lure, a bone to fetch. But soon, you’ll kill him, too. You’ll be there to watch your entire family die by your hands, Edolesi…”

Aruul flashes a final smile as he steps out the door.

_“It’s what you do best, isn’t it?”_

Y/N’s eyes grow wide and feral, a wild strength lurching her forward to rip out the man’s throat with her teeth.

Something crawls up her back, small and grey, _hissing_.

  
  


『✭』

  
  


Tony sees something moving in the distance, he has been for a while now. He was taken by the sight of stars, left in a spontaneous wonder as he never imagined he would be so close to such a light. Something odd, yet something familiar had struck him as he swiveled in the pilot seat. The Abeona was a comfortable vessel, Tony made sure of that himself. He tried his best to make himself so, as he felt so oddly disturbed by this feeling that made his blood run cold. 

_A sense of dread,_ Tony thought to himself as he chewed on the cap of a pen, _that’s normal. Perfectly normal._

Natasha had been awake an hour ago, yelling at him and Steve to stop playing paper-football, but they both were stubborn, bent on either one’s victory rather than a straight tie. The Widow only rolled her eyes and went back to bed, stealing Steve’s iPod and earbuds in a huff. In the end, neither won fairly. The game ended with a nap, ending only ten minutes for Tony.

He just couldn’t seem to fall asleep.

It was difficult now, of course, as his mind was plagued with a feeling of such overwhelming negativity, he wanted to step outside, uncaring of what the void of space would do to him if he did so.

Tony wished he could call Pepper. He wished for a lot of things.

With JARVIS connected to the vessel, it would not be a difficult task to do so. JARVIS’s capabilities were expanding everyday, leaving the hollowed Tony proud at the end of each night. Now, the fruit of his work was dormant, countlessly checking the integrity of each iron suit he packed. Simultaneously, the A.I. was also steering the ship. 

He found it strange, not wanting to disrupt a system he built, but thought nothing more of it.

Tony blinked, shielding his eyes from the sight of a star that entered in their sights, merciless against Tony who was struck with the sense of dread, again. 

This time, Tony felt paralyzed as red brimmed against his eyes.

_The nuke._

How could he have forgotten?

_ir…_

It felt like so long ago, why was it only now affecting him?

**_ir…_ **

Tony blinked, brave against the light that reminded him so much of that terrible sight.

**_Sir!_ **

_“JARVIS?”_ Tony choked out weakly, beginning to feel around the darkness around him, trying to make sense of the ship that was suddenly shaking.

Someone was calling to him from behind, but he couldn’t focus, the light of the star was still in his eyes, blinding and fierce.

It’s moving, Tony observed as he gripped the panels.

_Oh god, it’s moving._

The ship was hit with the light, rupturing their engines, sending the Abeona plummeting into atmosphere below.


	10. Blood Song「10」

##  **𝐀 𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐅𝐞𝐭𝐜𝐡**

From the northern horizon to the southern peaks, the last of the sun’s light was overcome with the crawling of formal grey shadows. The golden flakes that sprinkled onto soil and stone, beneath many trees all melted away in small fragments, and the flaring brilliance of the white and gold towers no longer glowed as the sun disappeared to the _Elseland_ , leaving none but darkness across the Echealion and the kin regions. Not even the pristine snowblight could illuminate the star-shroud lands.

From what many Amisians understood, aside from many soft-headed younglings, the Elseland was a place of wild green, unexplored acres that stretched as far as the eye could see. It was the second of the two continents of Amis, where almost little to none visitors dared to tread. It was the king’s order, lost and fearful of what could be in that vast land. The only true place was _Sinrior_ and _Hothum_ , small twin peninsulas for the manufacture of mystical herbs, dangerous creatures, and other unknown artifacts.

Krow never took much interest in the Elseland, finding it to be filled with nothing but trees, so familiar with the green that were a brother to his own eyes. He chose to remain where the people were; where Y/N was. And, although he could never bring himself to call whatever she did, a home, he would always remain by her side, as would she.

It’s been that way since they were little; children who longed to rule the world. They were so much different now, older and wiser. They both understood the messiness of power, of what it could do and what it couldn’t, the sacrifices one would make and those who would die in vain. Krow wanted none of it, he insisted, absolutely none of it, and was glad to see that Y/N had agreed. His beloved friend had stepped down, of which she argued was for him, but was glad either way.

Krow ended up, in the end, missing her company—which was more than often. The world before him as he stayed perched atop the western hall balcony was singing a song to him, a voice made of a chilling breeze and an icy tone. The notes were caught in his hair, but he made no effort to wring them out with his hands. The cold was pleasant, offering balance in his flushed face that reached the tip of his ears. 

_They should be back now_ , Krow thought with a slow frown, _where could they be?_

The unexpected company of maidens and advisors made him turn, alerted by their worried yapping, vexingly disrupting voices that broke the harmony of the wind. His eyes trailed to meet their source of distress, finding a figure who towered above them all and was just as distressed as they were, but more irritated seemed to be a much better word. Upon realizing, Krow came to a halt, astounded that he had begun moving without the control of his legs, but was overcome with a foulness the next instant.

Before him stood Amwren Ramses, trying his hardest to dismiss the crowd of worried people and appease their constant yammering. However, it was not in the least bit successful, as their concerns raised in volume, questions of doubt and scenarios that were bombarded with impossibility. 

“Enough,” Ramses tried to shout, _“Enough!”_

Krow feels an unnatural warmth seize his nerves, wavering through his hands that slithers in a slow motion. His area of expertise excels as Ramses beholds the sight—the noise—of his people ceasing completely, as if he was frozen in time. Their mouths were crooked and agape, still as well as their unblinking eyes. Their king grows worried for a moment, but sees Krow, the young fellow, glowing green in his eyes, a brilliant viridian mixed with emerald, with a touch of a greeting darkness.

Ramses had never seen Krow’s power often, despite being one of the rarer few who had such extraordinary skill in wielding it. He knew that he was more than capable of defending himself, more or less joining Y/N during her conquests. Even the most mystifying thing; creating crystals of proportionate sizes was an uncommon sight, even if he did request them for his dining hall.

To see his people yield to him, taking the form of unmoving, silent forms, Ramses was more than impressed; relieved.

“Krow,” The king greeted, a trying smile as the man gave a bow, “I assume you want my attention as well?”

Krow gave a light laugh, rising his spine as Ramses came to his side.

“More or less. I just wanted to see if you fancied any more crystals for tonight. Any for the queen? For your children? The jewelers are not far.”

Ramses shook his head, placing a hand on Krow’s shoulder as they began to see themselves out of the corridor, not before Krow dispelling his enchantment on the crowd, smiling slyly as he heard their confused, disharmony as they had seen that their king was no longer there. Although he could feel the burning holes at his back, Krow was mirthless, and accompanied his king as they entered a leisurely stroll.

“I’ve heard some troubling things from Y/N, my king,” Krow began, “She spoke of many things, she was adamant that they come from the Queen, you see.”

Ramses did not have the pride to hide his shame from someone like Krow, who had seen it all; the way his brows creased close together, the way his body tensed and became rigid with his slower steps. He wanted to feel upset, angry with him, he really did. However, he could not help himself but to feel sympathy for the man. 

“Yes…yes, I know.”

A wrath was there, lying dormant, aching to be released again. He could have taken it out on the irksome advisors and maidens back in the western hall, but thought none of it. Even the stress of the seasonal change was beginning to get to him, wondering why as of late it was only such a bothering subject now.

_Maybe Y/N was right_ , Ramses thinks sadly, _maybe I was wrong._

“Gardenia was once fond of Y/N,” Ramses smiles fleetingly as his eyes come together with the dusk, “When they first met, she was very happy to meet her. The famous _Golden Heir, the Wild Star_ …She must have been so excited to be hers, her mother. But, as soon as Y/N saw her, she stormed away. She whispered, ‘ _hideous_ ’. She called Gardenia, her mother-to-be, _hideous._ ”

Krow could vaguely remember that day. His mind drifted to a much more faded dusk, shroud with a veil of white and an air of sweat and blood. They had been training, for what he could not remember. He went out to fetch a flask of water, only to come back with a steamed, crying Y/N crumple against his shoulder—ahead of him was a woman and a man, frowning at the both of them.

Ramses himself remembered the aftermath; the equal tears, the seething breaths, the disgust. It was the first time he had ever seen such a rage in a delicate face. His skin crawled with gooseflesh, a regret seared into his nerves, a remorseful eye onto the young man before him.

“I suppose that this is my fault, then. I underestimated her feelings. You know it to be true.”

Krow blinked, nodding only once without hesitation.

“She felt this way for a long time, my King. Even now. No love from marriage will help. Not even the love from her siblings.”

Ramses nods slowly, trying to rid himself from his smile.

“Yes…you’re right. I suppose it’s time for me to accept such changes.”

“Cyreus may not be fit to be her husband,” Krow shrugged his shoulders, “But he is more than capable of being her friend.”

They exchange a smile, mounting the steps of a balcony that hovered just above the second ring of gardens, full of powdered white, blue, lavender, and pale orange. Even beyond that was more grey, more formations of innocent black that was illuminated by sparkling stars.

“He might be more fitting as her punching bag,” Ramses jested, sharing an agreeable laugh, “But, I suppose that’s your job.”

Before Krow could utter another phrase, the sound of heels clicking against stone echoed throughout the curving halls. The hiemal interior seemed to dull in its flashy arrangements as they turned to see her; Gardenia E’rya, striding to them with impatience written in her painted features. Ramses had collected the hands of his wife, not without an uneasy hesitance. Krow bowed, but held his tongue.

“My love,” She began, her voice fragile and ragged, “Meister Mavenpoor, he insists on your presence right away. Our darling boy…”

Ramses flashes his eyes to Krow, who is more than willing to bid his king farewell as he soon takes off running towards the exiting halls. He was left with Gardenia, the same woman who smiled slyly after panting and pleading. His expression turned immediately sour, his tongue writhing again like an angered viper. 

_“Your darling boy,”_ Krow repeated venomously, “Shouldn’t you go with him for such news?”

“I’ve heard them already,” She says dismissively, waving a careless hand, “I’m the one who sent you first, remember? But anyway, it seems that the bastard slipped from my hands today. I can’t find her.”

Krow feels his nerves flare, his heart beating like the wings of a sun beast, glaring at the woman whose mouth dropped agape as he came sauntering away from her, growling.

“Y/N is not your concern. It’s not my concern to know everything about her for you, either. I’m done. _We’re_ done.”

Gardenia E’rya only smiles, a hand resting first on her stomach, then to her heart.

“Perhaps you don’t understand, _my darling boy…_ ”

  
  


『✭』

  
  


Y/N remembers their names, all of their names.

_Lynara, Pegarius, Oly, Fran, Viator…Brena, Quirro, Derose, Calandra, Amaris…Jenri, Mrozek, Luisa…and many, many more._

She bids goodnight to the names everyday before her sleep, and whimpers them the next morning awake. The sun is always in her eyes, blinding with speaks of prism flakes, wet and harsh. She doesn’t remember a morning when her sleeps were peaceful, dreamless, and silent. Faces of an eon come together just for those six hours, if she was lucky enough than her regular three. Krow knew of her sleeping issues, but found it troubling to treat it carefully.

Y/N wanted for it to be left alone; she _insisted_.

She longs for silence, but yearns for battle. A battle is not a battle if there are no screams, before or after. Y/N’s brain is hardwired in such a way—her father’s way. She has been comfortable for too long, she argues, but was not ready to give it up just yet. 

_They march in gold and fall in red_ , her father always said. A mantra, a promise that Y/N finds haunting.

“Sister!” Cervantes’s voice reaches her ears, overlapping the ringing and constant buzzing. 

Wisp’s cries come next, blubbering and sobbing, pitiful and weak. Y/N almost felt ashamed, but felt the pain in her stomach next instead. She almost forgets where she was after moments of that white hot pain, rendered meek and caged from the area around her; a windowless room that stretched only eight feet from each wall. There was only one exit, and there was a Dog in front of it. 

Y/N growled, wanting for it to growl back, desiring nothing more than to get rid of the disembodied ringing in her ears.

_“Sister!”_

“Shut…Shut up.” Y/N’s drooling red, dripping in a slick pattern onto the sand that’s stained in her blood.

She finds the urge to vomit deep in her stomach, but is interrupted by another blow to the cheek. Y/N softens her tongue, empty of heaving, but spat her tooth out, rolling her head over her shoulders, her hair against Cervantes's trembling and shaking terribly, even from such limited contact, Y/N can feel his fear. She couldn’t sympathize with it, not when there was something sharp digging into her arm.

A pool of red adds onto the stone, crawling up to the walls while Y/N is desperate for it all to be over.

_Out,_ Y/N thinks, _get it all out._

“You don’t squirm,” One of the two Dog speaks as he digs a knife into Y/N’s bare arm, “Tough. Tough skin.”

“Which explains why I’m so thick-headed,” Y/N’s body leans forward, her eyes shut tight, “Mind if I ask again, then? Where is Oryosi?”

“No.” The response comes from the second of the two Dogs, who throws a punch into Y/N’s neck, cold, metal knuckles colliding into her jugular. 

Y/N’s body feels as if it was doused in gasoline and lit on fire, her blood turns from warm to boiling against the walls of her throat that sputters and blooms purple. A blue is mixed in as Y/N tosses her head up towards the light, her mouth wet, dripping, and slobbering, the Dog who pauses from cutting into her arm grimaces as a spray of red coats his own forearm. With disgusted creases, the Dog rips the knife from her skin and scrubs a cloth around her lips. 

Y/N nearly laughs at their form of charisma. _What good would that do? Don’t you know who I am?_

“It’s time we end this.” The Dog finally says, erupting chaos from the two brothers.

“Stop it!” Cervantes shouts again, thrashing more wildly, “Stop it! Stop it! Stop, right now!”

Something sharp cracks against the red and white air, silencing her brother, who is left limp and silent, a fear seizing Y/N who had done her best trying to block out the pain. The pain she feels, the fear against the back of her head is no longer trembling and present, where her own increases tenfold as her youngest brother screams.

“No!” Wisp cries, “Stop! Please! Leave them alone! No!”

_“Enough!”_ Y/N shouts, her voice overpowering the blood that burns her throat. 

She feels a sense of hollow relief of the ceased ringing, the numbness in her cheeks swelling, the biting cold and heat in her throat that bubbles and swallows down pints of red. Y/N feels nothing but anger, deceit, and rage—untamed, wild, horrific rage. Answers, she was once pleading for, all she needed was answers. 

What she wanted now was **_blood_**.

Aruul had been watching her this entire time. He came back to watch the performance, the carving skill of his most trusted and loyal dogs. With each scrape against her skin, each blow to the face and stomach, Aruul’s smile crept wider. His eyes were wide, once placid, but lustful now. His silvery eyes, akin to the hiding grey, was caught full in her face now, reflective pools that reminded her of a closer moon. Y/N resisted the urge to spit red into it.

“Are you ready to give in now? That took an awfully long time.”

Y/N doesn’t answer, leaving Aruul somewhat speechless as he challenged the might of the still Wild Star. 

_She was bound_ , he reminded himself, _she was powerless now._

But there was something there, something burning and cold, writhing up his spine.

“What?” Y/N raised a brow, “Don’t be afraid… _I don’t bite_.”

Aruul lets out a scream, a terrible, wailing cry of agony that ruptures the integrity of the walls around them. The dust falls from the ceiling with sprinkles of sand, but Aruul does not fear the collapse of the temple, as he feels nothing but teeth.

_“Ooh, but he does.”_ Y/N smirks.

The grey, her little grey, rips away his teeth from Aruul’s collarbone, a chunk of his flesh left hanging in his little jaws. A morbid yet unashamed smile creeps weakly to Y/N’s lips as he swallowed it down, bloody and raw. The Dogs are turning in alert to their Khrosa, who howls in such agony, Y/N fears she might be hearing the ringing again. 

The smell of smoke is what makes her smile, a dreamful smile that widens to the sound of the rope that steams and snaps. Her eyes filter with rage, turning dilated and wide as she kicks one of the Dogs from under their feet, walking over him as he crumpled to the ground. Sand is everywhere, along with folds of red, increasing her excitement more.

However, her eyes turn back, seeing Wisp whose bonds have burnt away, too, already taking an unconscious Cervantes towards the farthest corner of the room.

“Close your eyes, dear brother,” Y/N’s voice is a thunder that is shrouded in fragments of sand, sweet, blissful, and dangerously low, “Close them, sweet prince.”

Wisp does as he is told, clutching his brother tight and unrelentingly. 

Discarded and forgotten blood rises from the sand and to her hands by some unworldly trick of gravity. Y/N feels both heat and ice as her blood solidifies into sharp thorns, having the pointed surfaces of geometric shards. Y/N wastes no time to throw her arm forward, sending the shards into the second Dog who had almost successfully removed the dragon from Aruul’s arm. 

Y/N stirs comfortably as the Dog is impaled and left hanging along the wall. A warmth flaps against her cheeks and settle on her shoulder, shrieking and hissing at Aruul who is struggling to stand again. Aruul was choking on blood, adding to Y/N’s satisfaction as she reeled her elbow back, her hand curling closed in a fluid motion.

“I’m your dog? _Me?_ _Edolesi?_ ” Y/N laughs, ripping away her arm, relishing in the sound of Aruul’s scream.

“You should be on your knees,” Y/N kicks him down, growling, “A son. I know you have a son. A son without a father is troubling, I know. It’s first-hand knowledge. But the gap in my knowledge is whether I should make that a reality or leave it in my imagination.”

“P-please…” Aruul chokes, _“Please!”_

Yet before Y/N could do anything more, she was stopped by a voice.

Y/N sees a boy, as she is much older than the both of them. Y/N blinks widely, finding Ago suddenly there, clinging to his father desperately and weeping. Aruul clutches his son back, eyes red as well as the hands that grip him. A form of desperation manifests itself in front of Y/N’s eyes that well up with a sudden fear.

It shivers her, seizes her, and weakens her. Y/N is left with the visage of family, a family she had never known.

“Sister…” A voice calls, Cervantes’s, who’s weak and awake now.

“Please…” Comes Wisp’s voice, this time.

_“Let’s go home.”_

Y/N lets herself be taken by the hands of her two brothers who lead her out of the bloody chamber, stumbling and solemn as the candlelight passes through her peripheral in perfectly timed patterns. She couldn’t count them, she didn’t want to. All she wanted to do was comply with her brother’s requests and search for a home. Their home, theirs.

Her grey shifts again, trilling a low, musical note; the call for his brothers and sisters. They seemed to have been at some distance, as an echo followed, where Wisp is taken by his kind instinct and follows their cries. Cervantes follows without question, running with his brother, both pulling the half-blood.

Y/N almost wanted to laugh, _her half-blood saved the true-bloods_. They should make a ballad for that.

Her grey hisses worriedly, of which Y/N smiles to and drifts her cheek against the shroud of his wings. He is nestled in her form of comfort, but takes flight as they come to the parlor that is messy with shredded scales of many colors. Y/N sees the blood as well, spots on the pale yellow, and occasional shreds of leather that make her cursed blood run cold. She barely sees Wisp collect the shivering balls of leather from the ground, beaconing a welcoming smile as they feel his touch and sing.

_Grey Blood_ , Y/N named him, took flight to his kin and covered them all with the spread of his wings. 

Y/N felt arms, too, pulling her in, soothing her with the promise of home.

  
  


『✭』

  
  


_Run_ , Y/N encouraged weakly, _don’t stop running._

_Even if I fall, don’t ever stop running._

The half-blood was beginning to have trouble finding her bearings. The sweeping tides of sand in her view were beginning to look more than familiar, yet she wholeheartedly trusted her brothers as they stormed from the temple and back on the path back to the Echealion. There were already guards being sent out as soon as they left the parlor, courtesy of Aruul who had composed himself just in time to send his Dogs. There was no time to find a ship and the dragons were not big enough yet to be ridden, they argued, hurrying themselves to the streets of the bazaar, desperate to make their fast exit.

“Turn!” Cervantes screeched, diving his head downwards to avoid being seen by a passing Dog, “Left!”

Wisp struggled to keep Y/N standing, as she had lost some sensations from within her own mind. The numbness crept and was fast enough to blur her own senses, strong enough to have her feet dangle than run. Y/N cursed a long word in an old tongue, trying to make sense of the people who looked so ungodly familiar, but knew that it in the end, it was all in her head.

_Why isn’t she healing? Why?_

_“Shit!”_ Cervantes hissed, seeing a pair of Dogs from a distance shove bystanders and advance towards them.

“Hey, no swearing.” Y/N slurred slowly, leaving the boys to drag her into a nearby alley. 

Numerous Irieth Amisians were beginning to become weary over their own streets, growing more concerned as they had seen the retreating figures of two injured boys pulling along an older girl, mangled and weak. They were beginning to report to the Dogs, who had already known of the situation and wasted no time to chase after them. They cried out in surprise, and some with pain, as both the boys and the Dogs shoved and stepped on toes, for a path to victory. 

Y/N was getting heavier as they came to the final block of buildings, just a little farther from the exit of the domain. Wisp had gripped her shoulder now, of which he found painfully difficult, having no choice but to run on his toes as he struggled to even reach half of her crooked height. She bent awkwardly, losing blood by each step now, while Cervantes was so occupied with their surroundings, kicking baskets and ramming shelves over with his shoulder to cut off the paths of numerous Dogs at their heels.

The little dragons, too, did their best to aid them. Smart things, they were. Smarter than they were as they were capable with the option of flight. However, they chose to stick together. Their new freedom became their option of companionship. With their jaws, with the little strength they had left after suffering many painful occasions of mishandling, they came together to clamp their teeth down onto the scruff of Y/N’s neck, doing their best to hoist her higher with their flapping wings, to the point where Y/N asked herself if she was flying.

 _A breeze_ , Y/N smiled dreamily, _a breeze has finally come._

“Why isn’t she snapping out of it!?” Wisp threw his head to her brother, who did not look at him as he answered, continuing to run.

It took only a moment before the thought clicked.

“This place is a desert! The air is drying her out even without the heat!”

“Find water then!” Wisp yelled back, eyes darting to find even a flask.

_Where in the world would open water be in Irie?_

The boys came to the final clearing, the two becoming alert with their surroundings. The environment was devoid of any sufficient water supplies. They struggled to carry her to the next block.

_“There!”_

Wisp pointed to a decorative fountain, full of water and leaking some. They all made their greatest effort to guide Y/N, who stumbled along, the front of her thighs hitting against the slab.

“Get in!” Wisp pleaded, glancing behind him.

However, Y/N did not move.

_“Oh, bother!”_ Cervantes grunted, gathering Wisp’s attention as he put an arm on his shoulder, “Come on! Together!”

Everyone wasted no time to kick their only chance of survival in the water, sparring no shame as Y/N sank to the bottom of the pool, littered with various objects like coins and forgotten aquatic flowers. They watched for only a second as their sister dwelled within the water, leaving Wisp slumped against the concrete slab of the fountain, tiredly. Ignoring the other children who fled, running to their parents, had unwillingly created their own commotion. Cervantes veered his head back, seeing a few Dogs who did not break from their trail beginning to gather closer.

“Shit!”

He glared down at the water, seeing his sister unmoving and still within, eyes closed and adrift in an unseen slumber. His nails dug into the stone, curling and hard, impatience seething through his features. The call of the wind, a distant and cold song, was begging for him to do something, anything. Wisp looked worried as well, eyes glossed and red with tears as he looked up at his brother, hopeful.

_I can’t do this alone_ , Cervantes thought painfully, _please, sister, please!_

_“Brother!”_

The Dogs were surrounding them now, growling, wielding their spears, circling the royals who so ungraciously escaped their custody, attacking their leader, scaring his son. Cervantes thought of them as nothing more than loyal beasts, not as Amisians, as he was taught. No, they were not Amisians, we did not attack our own. We shouldn’t.

Cervantes stepped in front of Wisp and the growling dragons, who protected Y/N, protecting them. With a long, smooth breath, his hands came together, and the sound of the song was beginning to circle in his palms. He could hear them now; their raging, sad, and powerful voices in a twisted harmony. They gathered from the winds, the sky, and the air, swirling together in lashing forms against the Dogs that howled their war cry, charging their united attacks.

_Wake up!_

The second-born prince hurled his arms forward, hands pried open, unleashing a powerful gale that threw back the opposing numbers in unison. Flexing his fingers, Cervantes carried the voices high upwards and down again, in a flash, crashing the harmony down onto the Dogs that barked in pain. Blood thundered against the sand, as drums when Cervantes threw them back down. They suffered heaving damages, but it was not enough.

“Brother!” Cervantes grounded his teeth together, calling to Wisp who stood again, shaking.

Wisp looked back from the battle, turning to his sister who still did not move. She looked so peaceful, so beautiful, kind. However, as Wisp shut his eyes tightly, he knew that ultimately, that it truly was Y/N—in the end. He did not care if she was his half-sister, no, not in the slightest. The only person who seemed to mind at all was his own mother.

The mother who dotted, harbored such hateful glares to someone like Y/N. No, no longer.

_No longer would Wisp stand aside._

And so, with a slow breath, his eyes, once golden and bright with innocence, turned a dark magenta, pulsing and vivid with his power. Control and skill molded into the bones of the child, harnessing a brilliance that had been looked upon as awe from the people around them. His hands, covered and vibrant with a pinkish glow, had waved together. 

**_Wake up!_ **

Wisp was awake, and Y/N was, too. Her eyes were as bright as his, fuchsia and blazing.

_Only for a moment_ , Wisp thought desperately to himself, _I can only hold it for a moment._

“Wisp!”

Cervantes’s voice came in a tired and loud shout, panting with relief as his brother moved his own hands once more. What followed was Y/N’s own, synchronizing movements, charged with her own charged and flowing power. The water that poured so generously into the fountains, what collected inside, had come rising in large, slithering tendrils. The long lengths came lashing and striking like snakes, whipping away at the Dogs that were sent flying into various vendors, buildings, and their own craters in the sand. 

The wrath of water flowed in other places, as well, as Cervantes had seen. The flasks of travelers, other fountains, fresh juices from fruits, every liquid molecule, even forgotten blood had risen within their places in other long and short, slithering forms. They formed various, long streams, connecting and adding in size of Y/N’s manifestations. They came as fast as they recoiled, as Cervantes had seen, and was so sure that Y/N’s power did not stop there, he was certain that even the eastern ocean of Norrath was rising, too.

Grey Blood let out a shriek, opening his jaws, as well as his brothers and sisters, that were ignited and blazing with dragon fire. Streams of flames came from the seven, some in differing colors, firing away at various directions, of what was mostly sand and the tail ends of the Dogs’ leather loincloths. The fires crawled and licked up the fabric, leaving nothing but ash and burning at their skin, leaving them to hurriedly put the blistering flame out with their hands. Even their spears, embroidered in both iron and steel, had melted from the lightest contact.

Without any choice, the Dogs all scampered into a retreat, tails tucked between their legs. They were safe.

Sunny’s jaws unhinged to let out a worried cry, diving from her flight to curl against Wisp’s side, for the worst that he had suffered was a major fatigue that made his knees give out, and a nosebleed that dripped down from his lips and down his neck. Sunny cooed and hissed at the other dragons that came near, leaving Cervantes slumped against him, crying red and panting. 

Y/N had awoken as soon as she heard Grey Blood’s roar. The song of the beast was powerful enough to even rid her of her numbing senses. What was left was the pain, on her face, her neck, her body, her entire being was writhing in an unbearable pain. Y/N breathed through it all, however, letting her own body mend, slow and careful.

Her grey had dived from above and settled into her hair, chirruping worriedly. But, Y/N only sighed painfully with a faint smile.

“Easy, easy now.” She soothed, gaining the tearful attention of her brothers, who took her in her arms.

“My little princes…” Y/N murmured, pressing a kiss to their hair, “Thank the gods…”

“Sister…” Wisp cried, the scent of rain more fleeting than ever.

Cervantes chose his own silence, ready to guide the group away, deciding it was best not to look back, wanting nothing more than to leave.

Y/N felt uneasy from the very air itself, drifting again, in another different sleep.

  
  


『✭』

  
  


**_Open the gates_** , the message said. 

Krow had already felt uneasy as he read those bold, glowing letters that came as an alerted projection in his vambrace, however it became even more so as another alert came beeping, having the young man press a thumb in his arm to receive and read it properly. He knew he would be receiving the message soon, but thought nothing of what he would do when he actually got it.

The chill of worry skittered down his spine as his eyes drank in the three letters, sending him running to the tallest tower—the only safe residence of his beloved friend who had just returned home.

**_Now._ **

Krow was in a race against time, time that was fleeting and nearly nonexistent as he scaled the flight of spiraling, marble stairs of the tower dubbed, the Ascension. Though the bite of snowblight nipped at his cheeks and nose, there was the presence, the heat of exhaust as he kept climbing. Only small beads of sweat formed above his brow, doing nothing but adding tension to Krow’s legs that buckled against his knees, finally reaching the highest platform—the entrance of Y/N’s quarters.

For as long as Krow could remember, Y/N was fond of flora and fauna. Known to be a collector of sorts, Y/N kept small yet brilliantly exquisite flowers from planets beyond Amis. Red and crackling fire-snaps from southern territories, purple and withering rosebuds with no scent, or white buds that sung to her in her sleep, a lullaby that was said to sing its natives into a never-ending sleep, a most peaceful death. Krow only figured it would plague her with nightmares, but Y/N had always insisted she was well-rested enough.

What was the most astounding piece of Y/N’s collection, was a fixated waterfall that streamed from the top of the tower that constantly collected formations of clouds, letting them flow to the waterfall and down the balcony in a stream. After a while, Krow had discovered that the stream had come from the Vault in the labyrinth. It was an impressive structure, Krow never failed to think.

He was mindful not to step on any growing pieces of her collection as he came running across her quarters, minding the two small wyverns that had been welcomed by the open balcony that he forgot to close on their way out earlier that day, and flew out. He reached the final stretch of the grandeur, coming to a door that stayed hidden behind a bookshelf in the corner.

He threw the massive wooden structure to the side with barely any strength, throwing open the door and immediately crumpled to his knees to catch one who fell. 

_Blood_ , Krow shudders strongly, _they reek of blood._

Cervantes emerged second through the door, not falling, but stumbling and slow to reach Y/N’s bed. In his arms, he carried three creatures that shrieked and nearly burst Krow’s eardrums, but those who came in didn’t seem to mind it. Krow looked to his arms to feel a familiar texture of hair, strands, locks, and clumps that seized him with fear.

Wisp came in next, flushed and tearful, eyes puffed with red. There was something on his shoulder, something too small for Krow to see properly as he tried to stand, carrying his beloved friend with ragged breaths leaving him. 

They looked awful.

“What happened!?” Krow screamed, moving his hands and Y/N’s shoulders over to capture her face, _“Y/N! Y/N!”_

Wisp collapsed to his knees and crumpled to the floor, his throat parched and dying of thirst. There was barely any strength in his bones left for him to crawl to the flowing steam of the waterfall, prying open his red and sticky hands and cupping them full of water. He drank it greedily, uncaring towards the sweetness of blood on his tongue.

“It was a trap,” Wisp croaked, pink water dribbling from his lips, “We barely managed to escape.”

“Why didn’t you call me!? You could’ve died!” 

Krow turned back to Y/N as he dragged her towards the flow of water, mindful of her heels that skid along their trail. Krow brought her close, panting and cold, wiping away what he could of blood that dried around her cheeks and lips. Her cheek suffered a massive, purple swell. It seemed to already be healing, as the puffing form soon turned pink upon his touch.

But it was not enough.

“Wisp,” Krow flipped Y/N in his arms, “Wisp, get away from the water.”

Wisp pulled back until he had his fill, his back pressed against the cool floor where the youngling let out a sigh of relief and pain. The golden and bronze beast came unfurling by the side of his neck, cooing a soft and sad song. Wisp rubbed a weak finger under Sunny’s throat, mindful of Flare and Silver that rested and curled tighter around his legs.

“Do you like them, Krow?” Wisp asked weakly, smiling, “We bought them earlier today. We saved them. And they saved us…well, _Y/N’s_ did. The dogs threw down the others when they took me. Mean…mean dogs, they are.”

“Stay still, little prince.” Krow soothed as he threw his head back at Wisp, smiling weakly.

Y/N was both cold and hot, Krow observed as he tucked a hand under her neck and thighs. He kept his grip firm and still as he hovered her form over the stream, just thick enough for her to fit between. The gushing flow of her wounds was synchronizing with the rush of water, who seemed to call and cry for her presence, as threads of liquid began sprouting from the stream, desperate for her form.

Krow bit his lips, settling her atop the surface before submerging her completely. Blue, white, and grey came over Y/N’s once healthy, scarred skin, leaving Krow red and shaking. All he could do now was wait, wait for her to rise again. He took to the smallest prince who seemed comfortable in his state, now mindful of Cervantes who he tried so hard to search for.

Upon closer inspection, the worst that Cervantes suffered was a bruise to the head. Krow concluded that there was some form of concussion there, already wrapping the aerial prince’s head with a wet cloth torn from his own sleeve. 

Krow could only imagine himself, sympathize with how things were now versus how they used to be.

Somehow, very briefly, very faintly; this somehow seemed _worse_.

“Does it hurt?” Krow asked as he applied more pressure to Cervantes’s bruise.

“A bit…” The prince moaned, rolling over on his side, sliding the cloth higher on his head.

All of a sudden, something fiercely bit Krow’s ear. He reeled his head back to release a cry, his hands flying over his head to grab something tough and full of warm heat. Although whatever clung to him was covered in rough textures, there was something soft beneath, full of fiery flesh that warmed him from the snowblight’s air. Krow pulled away what stuck to him so stubbornly, flinching from leathery wings that flapped against his cheek.

“That’s Grey Blood,” Wisp called out from the floor, stronger in his voice, “Y/N named him. Quite fitting, isn’t he?”

Green met with gold, an unnatural color, bright and fierce. Krow had never seen such color in a dragon’s eyes before. It was not often that he had seen many, in fact. Dragons were roaming, wild, and fearsome beasts. Krow, and many others, knew that although many linger that are young, they would leave for Sinrior for their adulthood. Dragons are not meant to be caged, locked up, still forever.

_What made this one change his mind?_ Krow wondered, petting the black and ivory spines of Grey Blood’s neck, smiling faintly as he chirped.

Someone had come in the room, as someone screamed, more than one; _girls_. Krow veered his head back to see the triplets, fussy and crying at the sight of their siblings at such a state. Morok came, too, getting to Cervantes first who seemed uncomfortable to his touch. Worried, no, fearful were their only expressions as they rushed to them.

Yven and Florentine came to Wisp’s side, helping him sit up and rubbing delicately at the bruises around his wrists. Morok and Demetrius had helped Cervantes stand and all hobbled to come together. A protective huddle ensued around the siblings, filled with tears, warmth, and blood. They were crying, without a doubt, as the dragon sensed their distress, joining and singing. They seemed astounded but accepting of the beasts’ comfort, bringing a feeling that settled both uncomfortably and pleasantly to Krow, who let Grey Blood rest on his shoulder.

“Where is Y/N?” Yven asked with tears, to which all other siblings looked in agreement.

Krow came slow to their side, next to the flow of water, where all heads lowered to. As they took in the sight of Y/N submerged completely within the stream, they seemed to be eased. It was only natural for Y/N’s most prominent domain would be the place where she felt the safest and most comforted. The siblings came together, some of their fingers tracing along the rim of the river, sniffling and adding onto the flow with spare tears.

“She looks awful.” Demetrius sniffed, wrapping an arm around Morok who shrugged.

“She’s looked _w—“_ Morok did not get to finish, silenced with his own guttural choke as Cervantes jutted an elbow against his stomach.

“Enough, already. Come on, we should go to the hospital wing. Y/N will be fine like this.”

They all seemed to agree, helping each other out of Y/N’s quarters, leaving behind Y/N, Krow, and Grey Blood, and the unsettling feeling of impending doom, bidding them farewell. Y/N was left in Krow’s care, as he should. He seemed most fitting for the job, as he learned over the years, despite Y/N’s own abilities.

He came beside the stream again, dipping himself close to the bank, the only support that kept him lifted were against his knees, now.

His mind came to a lingering question; _why aren’t they working now, in fac_ t?

Krow seemed troubled enough as he peered into the veil of water, barely taking a breath as his head was swallowed in the river. Up to his neck, Krow succumbed to the moving stream, allowing himself to submerge himself as well, calmly welcomed as if he were a friend.

His eyes were accustomed clearly to the visage within water, seeing enough of Y/N’s dark lashes that were peppered with bubbles, some forming and floating from her cheeks. He kept his focus on her state, watching the very movement of the water move in a small current into her parted lips. It was enough to know that she was breathing, at least. 

_Wake up, now_ , Krow pleaded, _please, wake up._

He smiled faintly as the most of the blood dispelled, leaving none but Y/N’s cleaner skin again. He dipped a hand in the water as well, running a thumb along the line of Y/N’s chin, wiping away a stubborn spot of blood that immediately melted from his touch. The thought of what she suffered to get this, Krow felt bitter and foul, rising with an anger that ruptured his breathing and chest.

His softness spoke in higher volumes, however, as he lingered his fingers there. Y/N’s jaw was against his palm, melded against his own flesh as the coldness of the water no longer bothered him. He was taken by the sight, for once, he was not reminded of what he truly was as he remained so close to her. Y/N was her own wonder, of which Krow could not and might not ever understand.

His smile came closer and softer.

_Wake!_

Eyes of gold met with green.

**THUNK!**

Y/N’s mouth released a swarm of bubbles, a gurgled sound following as her head reeled deeper into the stream, away from Krow’s that shot out of the water. He whined painfully as he held his head, thick with a swelling bruise, curling up as he laid on the floor, completely unaware of Grey Blood, chirruping of what seemed to be of vicious laughter, before taking flight to Y/N’s side as she rose from the water. 

They were both wet with such differing forms of shame.

  
  


『✭』

  
  


The road to recovery was unkind. Aside from the carving in Y/N’s left arm, the excessive bruises that littered her abdomen, and the embarrassingly big bruise that swelled on her forehead, the supported hobbling towards the hospital wing was a fairly painful journey. Krow had been there for her to lean on, quite literally, and she was incredibly grateful. Although he had no issues with accompanying his beloved friend to her siblings, he found it incredibly bothersome that she was not troubled with what happened just a while ago.

His face was flushed, and full of pain, as he suffered the same bruise as well. However, it was more flustering as he found a loathing within himself that he had never felt before. The absence of restraint, bold and uncaring was flaring in his heart. Gods, he wanted to scream apologies. However, he chose not to make a scene, relieved even, as the dragon kept his senses and focus keen as he reminded himself to be careful with her.

He found Grey Blood to be a particularly enjoyable company. Funny, he was, apparently, despite being devoid of common speech. The dragon would ram his head against the back of Krow’s knee, trying to get him to stumble over his own feet whenever the tips of his ears would burn red. He could only glare, deciding that he didn’t want to be putting out a plume of fire from his hair.

“I don’t know what came over me,” Y/N had continued from describing what happened back at the temple, “I broke free, but I turned so horribly violent. And, for my brothers to witness such a thing! For Wisp to see that! _Gods!_ ”

Krow’s hand slid higher from her shoulder to her hair, where he gently caressed her matted and wet locks, bringing her head down to rest on her shoulder as they walked.

“It’s alright, now,” Krow soothed, his voice delicate, “You’re safe, you’re back home where you belong. We’re far from Aruul, and you didn’t kill him. Wisp and Cervantes are safe, okay? They’re resting and with your parents.”

Y/N wiped a tear from her eyes, ignoring the stinging pain that shot down her arm as she lifted it.

“I almost killed him, Krow…In front of Wisp. If his son had not been there—”

_“—Hey, hey…”_ Krow took her by the shoulders, his arms swallowing her tightly, “Oryosi informed me that Aruul and his son are alright. Angry, but okay. If they have another problem with you, they’ll take it up with me.”

Y/N stayed hidden in his hold, wanting to just disappear in his shadow, where she could cause no harm.

“Come, now,” Krow pulled away and grasped her hand, leading her to the entrance of the hospital wing, “Your parents are waiting for you.”

Luckily for Y/N, she doesn’t feel fear nor guilt as she opens the door to the hospital wing herself. The aged, marble doors creak loudly, announcing their arrival, gathering the eyes of both her family and nurses, those of which rush to help her from Krow’s shoulder. He decided to let her be taken by the professionals, finding no more strength to worry or fight them away, relieved that she was even still breathing. His eyes flicker from her form to her family, particularly her father, who comes up running beside her, grasping her cheeks tenderly.

“Father,” Y/N whined, trying to pry his hands away, “Enough already!”

Ramses peppered her brow with quick kisses. Despite being the proud, fearsome, and benevolent king, it seemed that his kindness was a touch overwhelming, his eyes brimmed with pearly tears as he kept her close. He was not ashamed as he sobbed only once into her hair, prompting Krow to smile slyly as she sent him a particularly annoyed glare at his amusement.

“My dearest Y/N,” Ramses stifled in his speech, pulling away gently, mindful of the nurses who came to tend to her wounded arm, “Are you alright? How badly does it hurt? Do you need more blankets? Anything you wish—“

_“—Father!”_ Y/N laughed, a hand delicately resting on his arm, “I’m fine. Go to Cervantes and Wisp, they need you more than I do.”

“You don’t need to worry yourself about them, now,” Y/N feels unsettled at the voice of Gardenia, even more so as her heels come clicking her way, “You must rest. The event still holds.”

Y/N sighs, shaking her head as she brings her uninjured arm upwards, clutching the bridge of her nose with frustration. She could suddenly feel a wave of pain writhe from up her arm and to the line of her jaw. She fights the urge to cry out, however, as her distress takes control in her tone, her words coming out forceful and harsh.

“You still insist for me to prance around in my condition?”

“You’ve been alive through much worse, Y/N,” Gardenia flattens the back of her hand across Y/N’s forehead, while she tries her hardest not to slap it away, “Thanks to you, Cervantes’s concussion will recover in only an hour. Just in time for the ceremony. You only need to worry about your dress, dear.”

Y/N groans, rolling her eyes, “Oh, for the love of the gods. _Krow!_ Come kill me, now!”

_“After the ceremony!”_

Y/N almost launches herself from the bed, wanting nothing more than to either leave or strangle Krow. However, the fatigue is rendering her into only a motionless shell, feeling every bit of her power beginning to reawaken only in bits. She would have to ask Cervantes of why that was later, how they managed to escape as Y/N could remember only bits and fragments. Y/N’s hearing could only gather the song of the wind, which was surely Cervantes as his shouting voice followed soon after, and then Wisp’s. Y/N opened her eyes again, her mind reeling with the recollection of voices that slowly surged through her.

_Lynara, Pegarius, Oly, Fran, Viator…Brena, Quirro, Derose, Calandra, Amaris…Jenri, Mrozek, Luisa…and many, many more._

Y/N frowned softly, remembering all of their names and more.

_His name…his name._

Y/N had noticed that Gardenia did not join Ramses and her other children as they gathered around Cervantes, minimally celebrating in quiet whimpers as he regained his consciousness enough to send them a smile, sparring them small details of the incident. But Gardenia did not join them, no, she chose not to listen. She remained by Y/N’s side, who was more than uneasy as the nurses wrapped her arm carefully, adding water for a faster effect. 

Gardenia scarcely knew of Y/N’s second gift, the gift of self-healing. Vitakinesis, the nurses called it. Along with hydrokinetic abilities, Y/N was deemed as a particularly gifted Amisian, harboring two sources of power, much like Krow’s. However, Gardenia would argue that her ability to heal came first than her control over water. Every blood molecule, every thread of her veins, clot and tissue could be replicated in an instantaneous moment should she suffer even the slightest injury. Cuts would take seconds, bruises would take minutes, wounds would take hours, and nearly removed limbs would mend itself in days. 

It was a peculiar thing, for Y/N to be rendered to a simple bed, simply waiting for her abilities to work itself. 

Gardenia sighed to herself, _she was getting weaker._

“Join them,” Y/N spoke softly, which was an odd thing for Gardenia as she blinked in confusion, nearly asking if she was talking to her, “They need you. _Go_.”

The Queen of Amis took one final look at the half-blood before returning to the rest of her children.

In that instant, Y/N broke down with silent tears.


	11. Queensland「11」

## 𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐚𝐬

Krow and Y/N begin treading down the lengths of their ceremonial duties that final spare hour. As Krow fitted his best outfits of embroidered, black leathers and a brushed and grey wolfish fur coat, melted irons that shape into intricately designed armor. He is mindful to keep himself at a distance until he was needed, but couldn’t help but remain loyally watchful. 

They both moved onto their next mission that day, as if the objective could serve as some justification, they both needed to be watchful of each other.

Despite his constant protests, Krow had finally given in and let Y/N have the opportunity to fight, should the crisis evolve into something that only force could prevent. Y/N was granted that one promise as she finished recovering, although she worried for her own condition as her healing process was significantly slower than normal.

Y/N had assistance from various maidens to help her into her formal wear. Although she was relieving help while getting dressed, she found herself unable to part from the company of Grey Blood, who stayed perched atop her shoulder, nestling himself comfortably in the veil of her neater hair, no longer matted, greased, and reeking of blood. The oils and essentials have really spruced her perfectly, so much so that the beast found himself purring as his snout brushed against her neck.

The golden, metal bodice that stayed fastened across her torso and abdomen were intricate with the carvings of stars, suns, moons, and vines of thorns and flowers. It shaped around her waist, resting over the pale-blue gown that pooled down the floor, flaked with stars and heart-shaped, auburn maple-leaves at the hem of her backside. 

Although she was thankful for the light-armor, Y/N felt uncomfortable, wearing such a dress that could so easily limit her movements in case she needed to make a fast exit. Yet, she complained no further.

A wolf’s dark-gray pelt draped across her shoulders, bringing a sense of warmth that reached the tip of her ears. Grey Blood was more than comfortable from within the soft shroud of fur, cooing softly and chirping in agreement to the maiden who laughed lightly at his appease. Y/N breathed shakily, however, as she fastened the strap of the cloak across her waist, made with dragon scales, fastened to its leathery skin cord.

What Y/N understood was that the very animals resting on her backside was found dead in battle, presumably with each other. She did not know, she could not have. She was just a child when she received their skin, enveloped in their warmth and thankful with each snowblight that it comforted her as such. A gift from her father, she had been told, but she had always believed that it was from her mother.

“To be honest, Your Grace, I don’t very much like touching dead things. Let alone wear them.”

Y/N chuckled mistily at one of her hand-maidens, _Olette_ , who had become a dear friend of hers over the century. She was fair-skinned, almost painfully skinny, a heart-shaped face that was framed by a bob of chestnut brown hair, and eyes as dark as an obsidian stone. Her hands were occupied with the fastens of the dragon-skin strap, her touches meek and quick. Her fingers occasionally rubbed together to get rid of such rough textures, yet only Y/N could smile as she did her best.

She, too, could tell that Olette found the skin of a live dragon much more comforting, as she brushed her knuckles along Grey Blood’s scaly neck.

“I don’t like wearing dead things either, but what else would keep me warm during this year’s snowblight?”

“We could just throw you into the _Ruzik_ volcano in Terius,” Olette teased lightly, prompting Y/N to roll her eyes, “I think it would be much better than to wear a dead wolf’s skin and a dragon’s scales. Who knows? Maybe volcanic fire might be greater than dragon fire.”

Grey Blood seemed to agree, smoke slithering from his snout as he snorted challengingly. Y/N lifted her hand to run her fingers along the smooth fur of the wolf, then lowering a length to caress the pointed, warm scales of her grey. Her eyes gleamed over, a laugh bubbling from her chest.

_“Oh,_ ** _please_** _do,”_ Y/N drawled with a groan, eliciting a few laughs from the other maidens, “I’d give anything not to go to this ridiculous soiree.”

One of the maidens, a girl from the Elysium, _Lara_ , shifted the plume of Y/N’s gown. The patterns of the fabric seemed as if the girl shifted a gray, untamable sea. Y/N would have to thank the Norrathians for such a wondrous piece. Her smile beamed through her teeth as she raised her head to gaze up to Y/N.

“Snowblight brings in flowerblight, Your Grace, a new, true beginning. I’m sure everyone doesn’t find it as ridiculous.”

Y/N hummed lightly, smiling faintly. Within her reflection, Y/N could see nothing but herself. In her stance, she felt like nothing more than a doll, being dressed for an occasion with other dressed up people for things she did not understand nor care about behind her glassy eyes. Though she’d rather spend her leisure wanting to do anything else, Y/N reminded herself not to be reckless.

_Not again_ , Y/N reminded sternly, _never again._

“No,” Y/N spoke softly, “No, snowblight is not the truest beginning in this world. It’s not sunblight, moonblight, or flowerblight. It’s _stormblight_. That is why it only comes during the times of chaos, why it has never come for the last hundreds of eons.”

Olette bowed her head, a hand pressed to her heart, as well as the many other maidens, as their minds drifted with the lives of Amisians lost during that terrible, fateful season, even the lives that were gone after and before. It was the only courtesy the living could give to the dead, not flowers or gifts, not revenge or love, but remembrance. The land of Amis was built on mountains of victories and losses; corpses. 

No one could ever forget the sacrifices those have made to bring the promise of tomorrow.

Y/N was the last of those sacrifices.

“What comes after the storm is the only true beginning.”

Grey Blood gave a singular low roar and took flight.

There was no response that followed as her father, the King, entered the room, witnessing as one of the maidens finally rested a crown of ivory and black iron, taken the shape of spikes as the band fit around her head—tips of swords, lances, tridents, and daggers.

_Light and darkness,_ Y/N observed, _it doesn’t make a flattering fashion choice._

Her mouth remained firmly tight, not quivering or trembling as it did the night before, as Y/N feared she might say the wrong thing, suddenly. She wondered relentlessly of what her father might say, what he might do, as they were alone, now. From a distance, standing at the entrance, Ramses beheld the sight of his eldest daughter dawning the crown. His expression, however, might not be parallel to his thoughts.

“Thank you, Olette.” Y/N smiled gingerly at the girl who curtsied in return, collecting her discarded silks and fabrics before making a hasty exit with the other maidens.

They seemed to be quicker than usual, as per standard when being in the same room as the King.

Y/N stood in front of a mirror, finding herself looking upon the person she was supposed to be.

She was supposed to be the Queen. A long time ago.

_But, now…_

“You look so different, Y/N,” 

She doesn’t know if she felt offended by that.

His voice is horrendously softer now, so much different than the one that was used to yell or worry over her last night. But, even so, she did the same. Y/N only wonders if she has it in herself to speak in such a way again, finding the words and using that same tone that would make her father see what she does, to make him feel what he couldn’t for the past seventeen-thousand years. Perhaps, even more than that.

She is taken from her own visage, and through the mirror, she flashes a weak and thankful smile at his approaching reflection. She wonders if he even saw it, or if he was just admiring her in the crown, letting his hopes roam free.

“But you are magnificent,”

Her father is dressed in a white garb, laced with curling silver and spritz of gold, shaped like the songs of the sun and moon—what Amis depicted it to be. The golden chains that fastened his milk-white vest dangled and chimed with each step, next to and nearly being covered by the thick, night-black fur that rested on his protruding, silver shoulder-plates. It draped to the floor, joining and mixing with the ends of Y/N’s dress as he stood at her side.

And, on his head, laid a black crown of sharp thorns, lined together by the swirls of darkness and weapons of Amis, very much like her own. 

“We both look… _magnificent_.” Amwren Ramses whispered, his voice fleeting and saddened.

_Who they were supposed to be_ , Y/N thinks as she looked back at their reflection, _just the two of them._

“You’ve grown so much…It’s been so long since you were a child…so small…yet to spry.”

Y/N sees the flash of hurt in his eyes, dwelled with a certain sense of remorse or guilt that he chose to not speak of. She didn’t want to look at him, not even at his reflection, but it was hard to pull away as he carefully rested a hand on her shoulder. She flinched at such contact, gentle and sincere, not shaking and angry as it was before.

“The same spryness that cost me so much?” Y/N inquires quietly, frowning at her father who sighs.

“Gardenia decided to _honor_ you tonight…despite what happened.” 

Y/N veers her head to her father, who strangely does not look sheepish, nor regretful. Her brows knit into a furrow, her gaze becoming more pointed as her mind races with the possibilities of what her father might have said to Gardenia. Admittedly, she doesn’t want Gardenia to do so much as honor her, but she certainly doesn’t want to know what motivations may lay behind it, if there was any.

“I told her…that she must be mindful of herself from now on.”

Y/N lets go of the breath that she didn’t know she held, gaping at Ramses who clasps a hand on her shoulder.

“If it’s not enough—“

“— _No_ ,” Y/N shakes her head quickly, furrowed, “No, it’s enough. It’s already enough that you talked to her. Strangely, I don’t want to wonder what you said to her. I just don’t understand… _why_ you did.”

Ramses frowns deeply, taking in the pull of Y/N’s expression as it morphs into something like anger, sympathy, and regret. It thwarts and twists as she tries to figure out what to say, what to tell him that she hadn’t already told him when she was screaming.

Now that she’s calmer, her words are fragments.

“I hit her. I yelled at you, I said all of those awful things. I defied your orders and nearly got myself and your sons killed. It shouldn’t even matter to her if I attend or not…I should be punished. At the very least, I shouldn’t even be there. It might even be my fault that we couldn’t find Cervantes. Father, why would—“

“—That is the last time I ever turn a blind eye, Y/N.”

She doesn’t understand, suddenly. She doesn’t understand his meanings. Y/N can’t accept his benevolence, his kindness all of a sudden, in all the years that she had known him, after everything they had done. She can only listen, as she always did, to her father. 

He always had been so gallant and composed, as expected for a king. 

However, as a father, Y/N sees not a king, but a man.

“It was wrong of me to be so neglectful of how she has been treating you. It was wrong of me to neglect you, Y/N, as a daughter. My first-born…my strongest…You were right…painfully so. I shouldn’t have been so unfair, after everything…After everything we’ve endured. I thought…I accepted that death was the only way for me to see that…”

Y/N weeps now, her hands engulfing her father as he did, nestled in his neck. She took comfort in their hold, believing that it was the first time, in a long time, that she was ever held acknowledged. Her chin, dribbling with glistening tears, soaks into the smooth, black fur of his cloak. 

Darkness fills her eyes, twinkling with light like stars as she shuts her eyes tightly, wishing that they were once again a family of two. Just for a moment, this moment. They could forget about their burdens, their duties to the kingdom, to other lifeforms who could not understand even the faintest idea of what they had. She wanted for them to live as a family, so deeply-knitted, so loving, so homely. 

However, as Y/N pried open her eyes again, the dark shifts to reveal the horizon, a beyond that Y/N has no choice but to walk through.

“I failed you, Y/N,” He speaks raggedly, “I failed you as a father. Forgive me. Please, forgive me.”

She never wants to let go. She doesn’t want to let go of this feeling.

_“You are the only thing I have left of her.”_

Ramses’s voice is painful and whispering, holding so desperately tight of his daughter who remained sobbing, broken in his arms.

“Father…” Her voice is equally tight, painful against her throat that chokes out a sob, filled with agony that nearly rips out a wail.

She feels like a child again, she feels a nostalgia that was long forgotten, lost in a millennia. Although the display was such a pitiful, despairing sight, Y/N found no shame as she clung to him. She didn’t feel the hurt of her pride, as the former heir, the true-born, to a kingdom who only ever looked upon her as a bastard.

**_No_ _._**

_Y/N is not a bastard, she is the true heir._

  
  


『✭』

  
  


Wisp Lorcán hurries through the gates under the heavily-guarded crenellations, running past the Atralis soldiers at their post who bow their heads at the passing, golden little prince. Although they had seen him maneuver his way throughout the narrow, echoing corridors that stretched at least fifteen meters long, and Wisp ran all the way through, despite his last hour being cooped up in the infirmary wing, dotted by his siblings and parents.

He took advantage of his wildness, the youngest prince did not stop even as he reached the dining hall, the hem of his white fur coat flailing behind him as he brushed past the hips and waists of startled lords and ladies from each region of Amis. Their silk robes, plumed gowns, and heavy coats were all marked at the hem with dusty footprints from the outside as Wisp came storming in with a heated, boyish laugh.

He kept his hands under his fur, protecting his beast, Sunny that chirped and hissed with eagerness. Wisp rushed to find his eldest sister, or at least one of them, who he had found standing by her lonesome, nursing a goblet of wine, with a similar beast, Grey Blood, perched on her shoulder.

His older siblings took to the dragons eagerly, while their parents were reluctant but found that they were more than suitable companions, especially after such a tremendously stressful day. It seemed like fate had granted him a pleasant coincidence, as the dragons that he named after for each of his siblings were chosen in their proper order.

Yven chose Leaf, choosing the name _Sir Pine_ as she was reminded of the green of the trees during sunblight within his scales. Demetrius chose Pebbles, naming her _Scuttles_ for her agile speed and skittering nature. Florentine chose Needle, naming her _Wrenoria_ after the first Queen of Amis, _Wrentoria_ , ironically named the Moon Wyvern.

Of course, Morok chose Flare, naming his _Anrath_ , a word from the elder tongue that meant ‘ _violence_ ’. Unsurprising. And finally, Cervantes chose Gust, calling him _Nimbus_ , after many other attempts to find a suitable name for the stubborn beast.

The nobles all but gaped and scoffed at Wisp who paid them no mind. Although they would’ve disciplined him, make an example of him should a small, weak child ever bother them, however, as they watched the young fellow cling to Y/N Skaraeith’s leg. Y/N seemed surprised, but was rather caught by the shifting eyes. As she sensed those mixed snobbish and frightened gazes, in return, she sent a narrowly sharp glare their way. 

They quickly averted their attention, nervously returning to their own conversations—leaving Y/N to smirk for only a moment.

_Pompous idiots_ , Y/N thinks as she sighs, glaring down at Wisp who beams innocently.

“Finally, your mother was looking all over for you. What happened?”

“Sunny wanted to dress up, too! I suppose she wanted to fit in with the other nobles, so I made her a cute little bow! See?”

Held out to her was the golden and bronze dragon, Sunny. Her wings stretched open, widening the length of her pride as she revealed her pale-yellow underbelly, wrapped comfortably in a silk, pink ribbon hanging around her neck. In the middle rested the crest of a golden star, the symbol of Amis, shining terribly bright that made Y/N blink furiously when she first saw it. 

In the end, giving her half-brother a pleased smile and a scratch under Sunny’s chin, Wisp relished in her appeasement.

“She looks dazzling, brother. Now, go to your mother. She’s been asking me about you for an hour, now.”

Nodding, the little prince waved her eldest sister farewell as he bolted through yet another pack of nobles, letting out scoffs of disgust and sending angry glares. Y/N rolled her eyes, nursing her goblet close to her chest after taking another sip, humming at the rich wine. Grey Blood didn’t seem impressed, snorting steam as he nipped lightly at his wings, an unavoidable itch that unsettled him.

“Don’t have an eye for fashion either, hm?” Y/N chuckled at Grey Blood’s chirp of agreement.

Y/N kept her distance from most of the crowd, mindful to avoid standing out or being too limited in space. Her essence became one with the wisps of many shadows, cascaded by many areas of light that shined from her beloved friend’s own crystals that hung so beautifully from the ceiling. 

Although she wanted nothing more than to feel the warmth of his geometric light, she found that the best place throughout the great dining hall, was the balconies, a place where she could not be seen herself and could watch the entire soirée in one sweep of her head. Y/N and Grey Blood frowned simultaneously, it seemed, as the feeling of some disappointment settled from the absence of anyone even remotely suspicious. Only snobbish and wealthily vile.

She was beginning to think that the true perpetrator would not be coming after all, or that she was correct with the notion that Aruul sent Oryosi and lied about the incident.

An unsettling feeling crawled up the sides of her spine, not akin to the chilling breeze of the cold air that blew many flakes of snow into her hair. She gripped the hem of her dress, discarding the empty goblet carelessly, descending the three steps and on the path to find Krow, who was near the head table. Her father, siblings, and Gardenia resided there, watching as the bountiful and loud feast unfolded before them.

Even from a distance, Y/N could see Cyreus and Marinella, laughing and talking away.

Krow had been conversing with Mavenpoor, drinking together, chatting amongst other things, of what Y/N presumed. Mavenpoor was never really a sparkling conversationalist, only rambling on of what Y/N knew about the history of Amis and its foundations in that old, sour voice of his. 

She was wholeheartedly glad her father was the one who taught her everything during her long youth. She can only imagine what lecture Krow got trapped listening to.

As she made her way past the other noblemen and women, her head reeled with the bruise that flared from her sudden wave of thoughts. She was questioning such an embarrassing event that happened between them the hour earlier, wondering why in the world Krow would be in such close proximity without revealing why. She thought it best not to speak of it, but found herself more troubled the longer she was deprived of any fitting conclusion for herself nor answer from him.

However, that wasn’t what she wanted to speak with him about in the first place. Hope glimmered in her eyes as she came to his arm, gaining his attention before he excused himself from Mavenpoor, who greeted Y/N upon her arrival. She felt warmth next to him, frowning to herself as his eyes met hers.

“You look fitting with that one on your shoulder,” Krow mused lightly, raising a hand to brush upon Grey Blood’s scales, “He’s large. Larger than many beasts his age.”

The beast stirred for a moment, golden eyes beady, blazing, and wild. Though he acknowledged the touch, Krow and Y/N could sense the beast’s surprising disinterest. He only gave a small snort from his steaming snout, before spreading his wings, taking flight to join his brothers and sisters who kept their company on the crystal chandeliers, chirping and screeching.

“Yes, he’s very much like you.”

Y/N rolled her eyes slyly and came to link arms with her beloved friend, beginning to pull away from the overbearing company to one of the corners of the banquet hall, devoid of prying and suspicious gazes.

“Listen, Krow, I wasn’t so certain of it before, but I think we should check the entrance one more time,” Y/N began, her eyes flickering slightly over to the uninteresting crowd, “I know we’ve looked ten times before, even in the vault, but I’m certain they might try to scale the walls, though.”

Y/N shook her head, her eyes closing tightly, “I know it must be a bother now; asking so much of you after helping me today, but I just—“

_“—Y/N, Y/N,”_ Krow tried to soothe, hands slowly capturing her furrowed face, “It’s okay. We’re fine, everything is going splendid. We don’t need to check anything because nothing will ever happen. Maybe our assailant was Aruul, after all. If that’s true, then he’s given up, now.”

Y/N took in the warmth of his touch, trembling within his hold, yet stirring uncomfortably.

“We will be alright.”

She wanted to believe him, she wished for her thoughts to continue spinning in abstract patterns, leading with no real conclusion—she wanted to get back into reality. Y/N’s gaze drifted fleetingly to the head table, resting on the highest platform that had her own half-family resting comfortably in their seats.

She was not allowed to sit beside them, but she remembered a time when it was never even a choice. Her eyes peeled back the layers of gold along the chairs, memories of what was now eight were only a mere two. 

Y/N found herself smiling for that time, lost in a dream. 

And Krow was there to pull her back out, as a comforting hand wiped away all of her misty memories.

“Care for a spin, beloved princess?” There was a lick of amusement in his words, rolling off the tongue coated with teasing mischief, of which brought a slight scoff from Y/N’s chest.

“Dance? In front of people? Me? No.”

Though he frowned, he had in his hand, another shining, aromatic goblet of wine. It was the next thing he offered, lightly chuckling at the way her creases of disgust unfurled into a wide and twinkling expression. Her hand came forth to snatch the cup eagerly, unlike her initial decline for anything else—not even a mere dance.

But, Krow would not have it. Given the nearly missable waver on his lips, Y/N had somehow been swayed low enough for her hand to be taken and spun. Her body came in a graceful twist, slow and beating, Y/N had almost stumbled over her own heels that clicked loudly against the polished floors, had Krow not clasped the small of her back in time, easing her to a soothing guidance.

And suddenly, they were dancing.

Y/N snapped her teeth at him.

“You conniving, unruly son of a—“

“—This is a means of celebration, Y/N,” He interrupted calmly as he spun her once more, “With you and your brother’s successful recovery, new winged additions to the family, and your called-off engagement to that _no-good-varmint prince,_ ”

Y/N could not help but snort, resting in his arms that folded around her, a delicate embrace that swayed to the sound of the music that were hardly carried loud enough from where they stood. Though, such a thing did not matter, not in the slightest.

“I think it’s safe to say that things are beginning to look better than how they were before.”

The stubbornness was an unchallenged and unbeaten feat in her eyes. Yet, the softness of her smile was what relieved Krow the most.

“I suppose you could say that,” Y/N huffed, her hand sliding higher from his shoulder to the nape of his neck, “I suppose that might just be the best thing to come out of this. How the way things were…will be tomorrow different.”

Krow moved closer in proximity, trying to keep her from pivoting and spiraling negative thoughts, dipping her low and keeping their movements swift and careful. The sound of his own heartbeat was the only thing that ever overpowered the sound of the music. Enthralled by his own eyes, the visage of Y/N so tight and free in his hold, he wonders if he can ever look back on the olden days and be thankful. 

_Their future, a vision ever so fleeting, was conflicted by their very own ambitions,_ a voice had said.

“By the by,” Y/N wondered, eliciting a swelling feeling in his chest as she watched a curious light waver in Krow’s eyes, “Since we’re no longer being chased by…petty girls or gallant boys who fight for our hand…”

_Our?_

“I was wondering…I was wondering if…perhaps, we could ever—“

_“—Everyone, please, if I could have your attention for just a moment!”_

The voice of Y/N’s father made their dance finally cease, but did not break away. Turning instantaneously, they had followed the gazes of every man and woman within the grandeur of the dining hall. They looked upon their king and queen with delighted and peering interests, already some finding a particularly familiar gleam in their eyes. Y/N could only watch anxiously, a feeling of a light dread settling over her coursing thoughts.

_Happy_ , Y/N thought, _he looks too happy._

“I would like to thank each and every one of you for coming tonight, dressed so marvelously. This year’s snowblight marks one of the greatest. Neither my family or my own magnificence does not compare to yours. Especially you, Overon, that dashing gullet of yours brings out the color in your eyes.”

Ramses raised a glass to the sea of his audience, catching the eyes of the Saeles patriarch who gave a haughty cackle, lifting his goblet and smashing it on the ground, relishing in the round of cheers.

_Fat dobber,_ Y/N thinks begrudgingly. 

Y/N could only wonder, within that moment, how the relationship between the Echealion and the Norrathian regions would be able to stabilize their means of bonds and appeasement to their diplomacy. Y/N had already guessed that Overon would be demanding a huge expense for compensation, frowning at the thought of the Norrathians becoming a bit too greedy, leading into a falling out that would somehow turn them back from the calm exotics to ruthless slavers and pirates.

Y/N grimaces at the thought, even as she was doubtful.

“Secondly, I would like to express my relief for my children, who have successfully returned to our palace safely. My eldest,”

Y/N tenses at the eyes that turn and lay upon her.

“ _Y/N_ , my dearest, most noble firstborn…”

She could not bear to look at her father in the eyes. However, Krow had been dwelling within their people’s peripherals and mingling within Y/N’s shadow, trying his best not to overwhelm the presence of her light. He had seen the way Ramses gazed upon his daughter, familiar, full of love and absolute endearment. A tinge of sadness, unexplainably, nearly impossibly. 

Krow found himself holding his breath for his king’s point. 

_Why? Why did he look so…regretful behind that smile?_

“I must express my gratitude…my love…and my faith in you, now and forevermore. You have protected your siblings, the Skaraeiths, the Amisians, from many and more. I would ask for you to lend us your strength one last time…”

Y/N raises her head to her father, engulfed with fear.

“For the birth of your newest sibling, the eighth-born, _Raimyr Kyrith_ …your… _our_ newest dawn.”

  
  


『✭』

  
  


The enormity of Y/N shifted in one fell swoop. Krow was just behind her, hands clamoring around the underside of her arms to help her from hitting the ground as she fell. He managed, to the very best of his ability, to keep each other from being stopped and concerned heavily over. His efficiency was well-wrought as he guided her back to the mounts of the balcony. He set her on the steps after carrying her weight, gently prying himself away from her arms that were so tightly clutching to his neck.

Krow grasped each side of Y/N’s face, white in complexion, yet flushed in the worst places. Her absurdity shone in her eyes that stayed locked onto the ground, unable to focus on Krow who was repeating her name, softly and breathily at first, but now loud and panicked.

“Y/N. Y/N!” Krow shook her, but she did not respond.

A hand had reached to wipe away that beaded down her brow, but his wrist was caught in her snatch.

Krow’s breath was caught in his throat, wholeheartedly worried as she met his gaze. What he saw was a mixture of unparalleled rage and raw fear. Her eyes drifted, only for a moment, to look past Krow’s shoulder and to Gardenia who stayed at the head-table, smiling and waving, thanking those who congratulated her pregnancy.

Y/N remembered the time when Wisp was born, frightful and horrified of the babe in her arms. She then thought about Morok, then Cervantes, then Yven, then Demetrius, then Florentine—all covered in red, flesh, and bone. To be brought into this world, as her hands coated in blood, not of her own or any of her siblings, Y/N couldn’t imagine the horrors her newest sibling, Raimyr Kyrith, would die just to breathe life into him.

_Raimyr,_ in the elder tongue, meant _sacrifice_ and _rebirth_. While _Kyrith_ meant _violence_ and _mercy_.

Y/N’s spine ran with chills as she could think of the bloody child, empty of resentment, but filled with fear.

“Y/N?” Krow whispered, a thumb tracing tenderly along her jaw.

The half-blood blinked away her tears.

“ _Again_. _Again_ with this…Again with shoving another task in my hands. I can’t keep doing this, Krow. I can’t. I can’t—What if I can’t keep protecting the children that just keep coming? _First it was…_ ”

Y/N began to weep.

“F-first it was Cervantes who ended up being captured because of me…then it was Wisp. I stupidly let him follow me into a trap,”

Y/N bared her teeth, wild eyes glaring and glowing.

_“What if…what if_ _it_ _happens again?”_

Krow closes his eyes, embracing Y/N who crumbled in his arms. She took in his warmth, breathing an unworldly air that made her shiver, tremble, and quake coldly. Her arms were slithering to meet the arch of his neck, wanting so desperately for him to carry her and take him away. Anywhere, anywhere but there was a place she longed to be. 

Though her tears soon faded away, Y/N does not know how long she stayed in Krow’s arms. She lingered in his arms for what seemed to be an eternity, wishing for better things, a different hope, the same future. Y/N had unraveled her arms from his neck, being brought back on her feet with his delicate guidance, she was eternally grateful. Her ears didn’t catch what he assured her when he turned away, promising he would be back after an unheard amount of time, flashing a painful, grueling smile before disappearing into the sea of Amisians.

Precious moments were beginning to recollect in her head, along with foul and forceful images that she just couldn’t block out. Y/N stirred uncomfortably as she leaned her back against the pillar, grasping tightly at the skirt of her dress, trembling with her grey who had apparently come to steady her. Her arms were taken with his claws, enthralled by the therapeutic and warm presence.

“It’s alright. I’m okay.” Y/N soothed to her grey, who brushed his snout against her chest.

She continued to soothe Grey Blood, though paying no mind to the presence who had crossed Y/N’s still path. Her eyes met with strikingly golden, brighter than her grey’s, akin to a blinding and radiant white, growing more weary as she came to realize who had just passed another goblet of wine in her hands. She cursed herself for being fooled from the unprecedented deceit.

Her grey coiled his tail and bestowed a malevolent hiss to the approaching woman. However, Gardenia was not fazed, merely glancing at Grey Blood with distant eyes.

Gardenia had raised her chalice in greeting, showing a calm smile that made her lips hurt even at the slightest twitch. Y/N said nothing and began to drink.

“When you brought these creatures into our home, I thought the madness had finally caught up to you. But, apparently, the children seem quite happy.”

The Queen gave a pointed look to the children who sat at the head table, gleaming and laughing, smiling from below at their beasts who crawled along the canopy of the ceiling. They tangled occasionally in scaly masses, gnawing and fighting, playing with such formidable strength. She found it peculiar the grey on Y/N’s shoulder did not join them, finding it all the more thematic.

“A shame…you came back with seven and forgot the eighth.”

Y/N had seen the way the Queen’s smile flashed with an ounce of resentment. What she told her father, what she was so desperate to believe, was all but lies now. In private means, Y/N had seen the monster Gardenia really was, watching spitefully as she smoothed the traces of her elegant, feathery, black dress.

“We don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl,” Gardenia begins, resting a hand fondly over her stomach, “But, it should not matter. Our love that is given to them will be no different. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Our love?” Y/N asks breathlessly, taking the goblet from her lips, wiping her reddened lips with the back of her hand, “Or do you mean your tolerance and my duty?”

Y/N ignored Gardenia’s glare as she continued, shaking her head.

“Why in the world would you have another child? Morok is already the sworn heir, Cervantes just received his acceptance for a seat at the council, the triplets got their award for their help in the exchange port, Wisp has just finished his intermediate studies…and I’m still here. What could possibly be left for the little, unborn Raimyr?”

Gardenia was quick to give it some thought.

“I’d like to imagine they would be taking lessons from you. Wield a sword, a few enchantments in the spiritual arts, here and there. A commander perhaps…maybe a lieutenant.”

“Any of that, I don’t mind. But I ask that you keep them from being a general. The one thing I ask from you just might save us years of impunity, I promise you that. ” Y/N says rather coldly as she takes another sip of wine.

There was no real purpose for an army anymore, Y/N argued once to her father. As the youth of her life were gone and left in a dream, Y/N thinks back to the time when she was the general of the famous Atralis army herself. Many years of grueling training came before she was even a considerable candidate as a soldier, and many more came even after being accepted. She grimaces of the horrors she endured, wondering if there was any pity left to spare for her unborn sibling, or anyone. 

The position has been vacant ever since she stepped down.

Y/N maintains her tears.

“Ah, yes. Y/N, about that…” Gardenia’s voice trails attentively, leaving Y/N to glance at her with a wide and heated expression, “I believe…that it is time for you to make up the compensation. After your engagement had been called off, Overon made it quite simple. Although, your father made the matter quite a bit difficult.”

“Out with it, woman. What are you trying to say?” Y/N snarled.

Gardenia gathers a chilling breath, sighing.

“Overon has made it clear that though you are formidable, your appetites are far from average and appealing. The way he saw it, you were…out of our hands. He found it rather…insulting that you continue and have such free reign within our realm.”

Y/N folds her arms, contemplating whether or not it was a sufficient idea to strike her again.

“I argue that I don’t have any at all.”

“Y/N, all he asks is that, from now on, everything should be under control.”

What the eldest daughter fails to see, what she most fears to conclude herself, is the ultimate goal of the monarchy that her father oversees. Her throat tightens with what demands and expectations are made for her to keep up with. She feels somewhat threatened at the idea of being chained. The anxiousness is not kind, licking up her sides and trailing to her spine. She sees a lack of sympathy in Gardenia, who is calm yet struggling to push her words from her painted lips.

Y/N frowns deeply.

“You couldn’t possibly be suggesting—“ Y/N is interrupted from Gardenia’s opaque, blinking eyes.

Immediately, Y/N is seized from the flow of rage boiling and coursing in her blood. She nearly lurches and takes Gardenia by the shoulders, almost throwing her off the balcony had she not gripped the metal platings of her fancied armor. Grey Blood is attentive and doing his best to calm her, disturbed chirrups resounding from his jaws that open and glow a warm orange. It flushes against the places of her face that turn a slate white. She grips the bottom of her chalice and drops it near her feet.

“Are you completely—“

“—Y/N. It is the only request that your father and I will ever ask from you again. I understand if you—“

Y/N snarls viciously.

“—No, you _don’t_ understand. You don’t know what _kind of thing_ you’re asking me to do. Have you ever read a history book in your life? Do you know the things I’ve done? I’m sick of it!”

Gardenia seizes her wrists as her step-daughter thwarts and tries to turn away, wanting to run and scream at her father who is taken by the sight of his missing wife, frowning and beginning to search for her in the sea of his people. Y/N wants to bite and rip her hands from her wrists, however, she does not break away immediately. She lets her fingers be the only thing for Gardenia to hold onto, cold and concise. 

“Y/N, being a general in this day and age, it’s all just a fault. It’s only for a show and for peace banners, more or less. You won’t be—“

“—You don’t know how the story goes,” Y/N cuts her off, raising an arched brow, “Do you?”

Gardenia swallows dryly, thinking back to a time when she was hardly in her prime. She remembers the lands back then, unkempt and wild, from the soil, to the sea, and to the sky. Arguably, it was hard for anyone to remember what things were like back in the Second Age. There were only a scarce few who could actually live to remember.

_“They march in gold and fall in red,”_ Y/N recounts her father’s words, her tone as harsh as its impact of haunting, “You know those words, those terrible… _awful_ words. You know what they mean, where they come from…”

Grey Blood shows his teeth, as does Y/N with shining pearls in her eyes.

“The Greatest Doom, the Day the Stars Fell… _The birth of the_ _Eidolon_ _._ ”

Gardenia’s blood runs cold, reminiscent of a body of metal that dwelled in the darkness, shining red under the sun, moon, and burning storm.

“It was the worst thing that happened to this world, what no one could have prevented. That…that _thing_ that marched into the field and killed our entire—“

Y/N struggles to continue, even after catching her breath.

“—There was a reason the Atralis army never had another general, why it should always, eternally remain empty. For someone, your child, and my sibling to be in that godforsaken position…I will give my life and every part of my freedom to keep that from ever happening.”

_What was that?_

_What happened?_

No one could have predicted such a travesty. The sound of screaming, people shuffling and clamoring together in a great tidal horde, and the roaring of dragons made the two women cease and take in the sight behind them. They were safe from the crowd of noblemen and women who were trying their best to gather those precious to them, demanding right away to leave the interrupted feast, where Ramses and Krow had finally found them, grasping their hand as all four had turned their heads to the entrance they exploded open its grand, wooden doors.

The visage of men, bursting through the iron and wood, wielding sharp objects, pointing and thrusting them at various individuals, made Y/N’s breath hitch incredulously, eyes filling with red at the sight of blood being spilt in her home. She was suddenly thwarted within the hold of Krow, who was fending against a man that was swinging a scimitar, while various others jabbed lances. 

_Dogs_ , Y/N thought, _Hounds. All of them._

Instantly, Y/N veered her head to the head table, trying to find her siblings within the abrupt motions of chaos. As she finally caught the smell of rain, drifting from the air that wavered so favorably, Y/N had seen their huddling forms under the long table, clutching the cloth that was so desperately being tried to be ripped away by two dogs. 

She acted out of instinct, ignoring the cries of fear from her parents and sprinted past the crowds of people, running from their screams and casting her hands forward. Y/N had been taken, however, by the canine masks of gold that were fastened to her enemies’ faces. She thought nothing of it, caught within the moments between her stilling breaths and the formation of moisture that wrapped around her palms. 

But ultimately saw them slam to the ground as her wrath came lashing forward, liquified and surging, Y/N’s hands unleashed a tide that blew away the dogs that were inches from killing her kin. Y/N caught the tablecloth, explicitly gentler than the men who tried prying the fabric away from her siblings who cried out in fear, but were relieved as they were taken into her arms.

Y/N kissed at their heads, fuming and quick to have Grey Blood take flight from her shoulder and call his brothers and sisters, acting as protectors for the children, who Y/N guided to the farthest corner of the hall. 

“Go! Get out of here! Now!” Y/N yelled, being taken in the arms of an assailant who was trying his best to tear her torso from her head.

However, Y/N bared her teeth, gathering a cold shift of air that took a chilling mass, stabbing into his side. The ice melted from the warm blood that dripped from the curve of her manifested weapon, seeping and staining her dress.

Ramses and Gardenia did their best to fend for themselves. Beams of light and darkness flew from their hands in rapid fires. The King was formidable and capable as he took out the oncoming wave of Hounds and Dogs, without the need to pick up an abandoned weapon. The Queen, on the other hand, conjured her own in a great, white, blinding light. Y/N hurled her arms forward, rocketing the ice that broke free from her arms to embed itself in the eye of a Dog that was overpowering Krow from afar.

There was no time to be grateful, only time to catch a breath and fight on. Y/N knew it all too well.

Y/N threw her head back and found the mass of people being thwarted left and right.

 _The gates_ , Y/N thought loudly, _open the gates!_

Her hands flurried with the swirling tides, taking down large numbers by the minute but was irked by the men who kept on coming. She took attention to the doors that were continuing to pour out Dogs and Hounds, prodding and stabbing, cutting the throats and spilling the insides of bellies of many people that Y/N could barely recognize. 

With a large strength rising in her throat, Y/N called out.

“Krow!”

_What a shame_ , Krow thought sadly, _I worked so hard on these, too._

Along the ceilings, rained a falling canopy of green and light, crystals and shards of many sizes and shapes began to descend. The crystal chandeliers that Ramses had commissioned Krow, so beautiful they once were, so tiring to put together in massive numbers. His power rested behind its geometric surfaces, now exploding from its glassy and shining barriers to carry in a flux against the Dogs and Hounds that stopped coming from the entrance.

They flew in great waves, thrown off balconies, separated from any more innocents by the green ground that split open. Krow brought his hands down again, a violent force following where his power thrusted and took the lives of several more assailants. 

_“Y/N!”_ The voice of her father was an overpowering beacon, rumbling the palace from his volume.

When she turned, she was captured in the arms of her father, who kept her from the eyes of Aruul who came sauntering through the broken entrance. He smiled upon the sight, the visage of his king protecting such a woman who deserved his loathing. Aruul prowled closer, almost laughing as the chaotic room fell into silence.

“My King,” Aruul gave a bow, “It’s been a long time.”

  
  


『✭』

  
  


There was a reasonable gap from the Skaraeith children, the wounded or maimed noblemen and women, Y/N, Ramses, Gardenia, and Krow, and the final ring of Dogs and Hounds that were led by Aruul Qhyros. On his face, hiding his silver eyes, was a golden mask of a volnan felidaes. The large fangs and jaw, its muscular amber, pudgy face, and a mane of sunset fire, was a stark contrast between the big cat and the mutts and lap-dogs. Y/N found it repulsive, growling at the mere sight of him, wondering just how far he meant to go, even after their unsuccessful torture session. 

Y/N broke away slowly from her father’s arms, ignoring his gaze filled with unwavering rage and fear, locked onto the man who ruled the Irie, the west, and the canines. But Y/N found that none of it mattered, seeing upon him a vengeful man, taken by his hatred, anger, and malice, wanting nothing more than to rip him apart with his teeth. There were casualties on the field now, however, Y/N needed to be the utmost careful.

“Princess Y/N,” Aruul smirked wickedly, “Edolesi. You look ravishing tonight.”

Y/N collected every figment of cold in her hands, surging above her palms was the essence of water, coming to swirl and crash in a small typhoon, flaring threateningly to Aruul who only chuckled and removed his mask. Aruul’s olive skin was slick with sweat, dried bits of blood staining his teeth and cheeks, with a large streak of red that rose from his neck to the underside of his jaw. Y/N could already estimate that the wound Grey Blood inflicted was festering and her largest weak spot.

“You must have felt safe for a moment, no? You must have thought that I had given up, just because of some grey beast that took a chunk of my neck away.”

Aruul let out a cruel, mirthless laugh.

“No. No, I do not fall so easily under beasts like you, Y/N. I know who you are. More importantly, I know what you are. All the names that were given to you for thousands and thousands of years doesn’t do it any justice.”

Y/N began her footwork, taking her away from her father who took to his wife who shifted to protect her belly. Meanwhile, Krow frowned at the sight, taking his place beside Y/N, in front of the two rulers. Her eyes glanced to the dogs and hounds at his side, lightly scoffing.

“I thought you didn’t work with Dogs,” Y/N said lowly, “What do you want, Aruul?”

Aruul rested his hand on the hilt of a weapon, a trident of which he pulled and brandished under the remnants of the broken light. Y/N glared at the weapon, already beginning to break down its structural patterns, high on her guard should Aruul attack so unexpectedly. 

“Normally, I don’t. But, we were all given the same, better offer. We all share the same goal, Y/N, no harm, no foul, no double-crossing, none of that. We want your life, Y/N. Taking your one life will do justice to the thousands.”

“Justice?” Y/N echoed bitterly, “Is that what you want?”

“That and your confession,” Aruul shrugged, leveling the tip of the prongs of the trident to Y/N’s head, “I want to hear you say it. I want you to tell me that you did it.”

_“Aruul—“_

Y/N felt three slices drag into her cheek in one motion, she was thrown to the ground by the force of the weapon that had come bolting down, sending her on her hands and knees, tracing the wound that dripped so freely onto the floor. She groaned at the overwhelming sting, glaring at Aruul who lowered the trident once more at her.

“Say it, Y/N.”

Y/N looked into the eyes of her father, whose expression she could not make out. Krow wanted to leap and protect her, however, the trident was so close to her. One wrong move, and it could drive right into her skull without a second thought. 

Y/N had lowered her head upon the light of the stars, where she wondered and prayed for their mercy.

“I…killed Amara and Nadia.”

“No!” Aruul lowered his trident even closer, where the tips dug into Y/N’s scalp, “Say it right, princess! Loud enough so that everyone can hear! You slaughtered my little girl and my beloved wife! Say it!”

Y/N cried out as Aruul dived downward to grip her hair, making her stand to her feet, the prongs of the weapon shoving into her back, breaking some surface of skin. She breathed, bracing herself from the violent force that shoved her to stand. She was now forced to face her people, the Amisians who looked to her in fear, of what was once guidance and idolization. 

What Y/N could see within that blurriness, was dread.

“I slaughtered…Amara and Nadia Qhyros. I butchered your little girl and your beloved wife.”

“See?” Aruul purred, “Was that so hard?”

Y/N can hear Grey Blood’s song, the low tone of his roar. He nearly sounded fully grown, but she was disappointed as she heard the small beatings of his wings next. If only she could mount him, Y/N dreamed mistily, they could fly off to the next world together, and the next one, and the next one.

“Now,” Aruul said at last as he straightened his arm, “Say your final prayer to our broken gods, princess, if it so pleases you.”

There is nothing but silence.

Y/N’s eyes are met with Krow’s, full of regret, disharmony, and the absence of a love she could ever return.

  
  


_I’m sorry._

  
  


Then, in the distance, a star fell.

  
  


『✭』

  
  


The palace nearly caved in from the ceiling, foundations broken and falling into the labyrinth below. Pillars collapse of the star’s impact, numerous halls rumbled and quaked from its rupture as it fell beside the banquet hall, ultimately crashing into the garden’s third ring. Although the people had screamed, the shout of Ramses allowed the people to seize the opportunity to take their chance and run, past the stumbling hounds and dogs whose heads turned to face the fallen star’s light. While the children and their small dragons escaped with them, they spared a glance to their sister who fell to her knees from the quaking of the surface.

Krow attempted to follow and take Y/N away from Aruul who fell with her, his trident clattering on the ground that began to crack in spidering forms. Whatever happened next, Y/N could not see, as formations of dust clouds and specks of gold and marble all but obscured her vision. Darkness fell from the sky, cascading in harsh waves over the ruins of the banquet hall that collapsed from the northwest corner of the ceiling. 

_A star doesn’t have an_ _engine_ _,_ Y/N thought before seeing complete darkness.

What pierced through the ceiling was as she thought; an exceptionally large piece of technology, white and black, sputtering plumes of flame and spilt pools of gasoline left and right. It tumbled to block the entrance, crushing those under who were not fast enough to run from its skidding and violent path. Y/N clasped her arms over her head, feeling large bits of debris fall over her as she tried to stabilize her labored breathing.

_Where’s Krow?_ Y/N thought desperately, taking occasional glances, only to shrink away again as more chunks of the palace fell over her eyes.

The sounds around her were thundering, more so than Grey Blood’s song that was long forgotten and distant now. The only thing Y/N heard was the yelling of her father, guttural shouts of pain from Krow, and the panting of Gardenia. She could not hear the overpowering sound of the engine that died out in a loud explosion, nor the mechanical moan the ship the engine came from as it crashed and dug itself into the earth. Y/N couldn’t hear any of it, trying only her best to stay awake and alive.

And then, after what felt like hours, Y/N opened her eyes. 

It was darkness, at first. Then, shadows and dust. After, it was concrete, marble, and gold. Lastly, as Y/N unfurled herself from her curled up position, was blood. The spotted rubies shine and dance from the smoke that billows from the plumes of fire that had spread to crack and burn the blocked, wooden doors. 

As she moves her mouth, her voice is soundless as she begins to finally pick up the mechanical whirring of the engine. Her eyes peel back layers of darkness as she stands, the sight of the machine was larger than fifty men standing on each other’s shoulders, where it grazed the remnants of the ceiling. 

She looks back, between her and her objective was a wall of fire. The broken machine was on her side, leaving Y/N only with the company of the deceased. She refused to look down, as she already knew that whatever it was that hit the top of her foot, was Aruul’s head that rolled away. 

_“Krow!?”_ Y/N shouted at the fire, _“Krow!? Father!?”_

She limped to lean against the side of the great machine, unable to conjure anything with the heat that burnt and crisped away the ends of her dress. No moisture could be drawn from the smoke or waves of heat that ran across her scrapped and broken skin. All she had left was her scorching, metal bodice of armor, a short skirt with black, smoking ends, the musty wolf pelt, the warm dragon scale strap, and her crown that fell and returned to the fire as Y/N leaned forward. 

“Father?” Y/N began to stagger from her weakened and bloody knees, “Gardenia…Krow…”

Y/N must have hit something in the engine, as something gave an unbearably loud hiss and fell open. Y/N blinked away the tears that brimmed her eyes, seeing something collapse next to her as she was brought down near the ground once more. She found skin—pale, clean, and bruised skin—falling beside her hand, freezing and gasping harshly as it seized her wrist.

_Someone’s in here!_ Then Y/N began to think, _this wasn’t an engine. Or so it was, but it was a pod!_

The half-blood thought next to pull whoever was inside out into the much harsher territory. At first, Y/N speculated that whoever it was must’ve been a piloting Amisian whose ship malfunctioned, as she thought back to the recent engineering difficulties that erupted in the hangar some nights ago. 

Y/N could only hope that this poor soul was not so heavily injured, wishing them mercy as they had so unexpectedly taken the lives of many dogs and hounds. However, Y/N would argue that it was a good thing.

Y/N choked out a guttural yell as she yanked out the person who took their time getting to stand. It was a woman, as Y/N lifted her head, seeing an unnaturally red shade of wavy, short hair. She was exceptionally fit, armed with tactical gear, wondering just who this Amisian might be. As Y/N predicted, the woman came to acknowledge Y/N’s presence as she helped her from the ground, feeling the gloved-tracing of her fingers running along the wounds above her jaw.

Naturally, Y/N flinched away.

“Who…” Y/N began but could not finish, eyes keen and peering into the fire now that had seemed to shrink as she stood properly. 

She saw before her, the wall of fire that was parted by pulsing wisps of black. A figure, exceptionally tall and glowering pierced through the flames with no difficulty. Y/N released a shaking breath as she saw him, slipping from the guidance of the unknown woman, who watched everything unfold before her, speechless. 

Y/N embraced her father, clutching tightly into his back that was still soft from the burnt wolf’s fur, grazing and soaking in her salted tears that streamed down her neck. Their touch was so desperate, so unbearably tight, Y/N feared of ever letting go. She found herself being a child again, a nostalgia born from fire, destruction, and chaos.

_“Father…”_ Y/N cried weakly, pulling away to take in the sight of Ramses, who smiled widely in return.

_“Starlight…”_

**_Kill him._ **

  
  


As if time had slowed, Y/N was aware of her surroundings to the most minute detail of movements. She could not interact with the air that made her chest stagger in slow motions as she took in a breath of the fiery wind, feeling no moisture at the ends of her fingertips that reached out, desperate, for her father. She was taken in the arms of the woman from behind, being ripped away from his embrace that was slowly beginning to wither by time itself.

She had watched it in its entirety; Ramses’s face, bright with golden eyes, flushed and smoke-scented skin, the creases of his smile falling and faltering into what looked to be fear and then pain. When it all ended, all Y/N was left with was the whisper of her name, her long forgotten name, awakening both a love and fear that allowed herself to be taken.

_No_ , Y/N thought desperately, _let me go! Let me go to him! Please! Father!_

The gold of his eyes turned to black, then red, then green.


	12. Dark Water「12」

## 𝐇𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐑𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐬 𝐈𝐭𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟

**_Kill him_** , were the only words Krow heard after he came to Gardenia E’rya’s side.

_Gardenia…_

Between his reaction of horror towards the ruins of the palace and the relief to know that he was even alive, Krow lamented on a distant memory. He had never seen the palace in such a state, not for a long time, in fact. Fire, blood, and chaos—the Slaughter of the Taevern, the near collapse of the entire palace, was nothing compared to this one room. The fires were not as dark, as merciless. The screaming and the roaring had all but ceased into an eerie and ominous silence, mournful. 

There was not as much blood on the floor as that day, not as much light. Neither the stars nor the light of the moon could spare a glimpse of mercy. Krow was forced to stare at all of its harsh light, wincing at the brightness that nearly blinds him.

Brutality did not run in his veins, for he was less than a coward and yielded another soldier’s thirst. Krow showed his expression of shock to the Queen who rose to her feet, heels clicking soon against the charred, broken, and ashen floors. What was left of the ceremonial dinner was buried under concrete, gold, marble, blood, ruin, and her smile. 

_Things weren’t supposed to turn out this way_ , Krow thought.

He tried to find Y/N in the midst of the madness building before them, coughing through the smoke that burned and danced from his skin. He discarded his fur, letting it catch fire that had finished licking up the sides of a fallen hound, returning it to its former master, in a way. All the dogs and hounds had stopped howling in the night, leaving only an ominous note lingering in the fuming air.

Green eyes flickered past wisps of red, finding scarlet coating his fingers, all in darker shades. Krow could not feel anything but his lungs that were focused completely to keep taking in the toxic air. His heartbeat was numbing, quickening to crush his bruised ribs as he saw figures move in front of him. The shadows turned bright and red, finding a streak of light that ignited the wall of flame that stood against him and Y/N.

_No…_

_Let me see her._

Gardenia lowered her palms, fading with a pure light that served as his beacon through the darkness and fire. He looked onward, taking in the swelling visage of Gardenia, who came closer to capture his face. Krow almost cried from her touch, uncomfortably cold and unwelcoming, unkind and quick. He wanted to move, to run away and find Y/N back behind the blazing waves. However, he was not allowed to move, only turned away by Gardenia.

**_Kill him._ **

Her words were sweet and darkly serene, forming and mouthing shapes that he could not understand for a moment, but had understood as she turned his cheek towards the fire. Ramses was there, all of a sudden, grasping someone, what looked to be another woman. Krow felt a disgust in Gardenia’s touch, clasping his face more roughly and sharper, her nails digging into his hollowed cheeks. 

Ramses was not looking to him or his wife, but to Y/N, who did not seem to notice them yet. Krow’s heart leapt in his chest, swelling with exhilaration as he had finally found her, weeping and broken. Scathed in a lesser amount, yet breathing and moving. Excitement, thrilling thrums began to vibrate in his chest, the beating of his heart quickening, and much more excruciatingly painful.

**_Kill him._ **

His eyes betrayed him, he must have thought, glancing up to the last crystal chandelier that was barely hanging from its iron chain. Worry coursed him now, anxious for the events that would soon unfold should he move his hands. He did not take an interest in killing, Krow reminded himself, desperately and pleadingly. Krow was only a young man, not a killer. 

And yet, Gardenia was still there, still holding him—keeping her promise.

_Could he do it himself? Krow asked himself._

_Would he feel better about it in the end?_

Krow thought for a moment, lingering on the memories of people—the people whose lives were taken by his hand—wondering if he would have the courage to let Ramses be a part of those memories. He was their king, the king of Amis; Y/N’s own father. Then, he thought about Cyreus. The rude, gallant prince who thought he could win Y/N’s hand with mere sympathy, no true act of guidance. 

Should they all live, should they all live to see the consequence of their actions, they would have no choice but to wed.

_Krow, don’t do it_ , someone pleaded.

_No…_

_Krow_ , that name… _his name…_

**Kill him.**

Krow lifted the veil between his thoughts and reality—all in one move of his hand. 

The last crystal shattered from the ceiling, arising from the shards a single flux of green that moved with his fingers that twitches violently. No matter how hard he tried to control his hands from twitching, the fear that seized his abilities and conjures did not heed his unspoken commands. Krow felt like a frightful boy again, killing what and who, no matter when and where, derived of reason or consequence; all for the sake of Y/N, who had been pulled away by another woman moving in the dark.

_Who is that?_

Krow had tried to look, to catch the last glimpse of his beloved’s face before she disappeared once more into the fire. However, the green that shimmered like the green of sunblight came down harsher than the blizzards of snow, raining down on the king, who became frozen from its power. 

Krow had never killed anyone like this, he breathes rapidly and angrily, he’s never killed anyone when their back was turned. Not even in stealth.

He was told to enjoy it, as it had come from the woman’s voice, he was taught to let his victims know just who ended their life in one fraction of a second. Krow breathed shakily again, fighting against the smoke that threatened to break his concentration, his tongue coated with musk and sourness, pearls collecting around the corners of his eyes.

No, _someone_ was looking. _Someone_ was watching him kill Ramses.

Y/N had seen the green implode her father from the inside, rendering him into the spilled hollow shell of the King of Amis, who was brought to his knees, falling bloodily into the flames that showed no mercy.

Krow closes his eyes, letting himself be taken by his mother.

  
  


『✭』

  
  


Y/N could hardly remember Amara Qhyros.

She had her father’s eyes and her mother’s talent. She was skilled with a trident, Y/N remembered quite fondly, reminded of the one instance when she was taken down by its long staff that struck her against the underside of her jaw. Those times were always filled with unfathomable sunlight, harmless savagery, and two contending, brash soldiers.

She remembered her victorious smile that was complemented by the sun of the Irie, brightening her grinning expression as it rained upon them, both training in the temple’s courtyard. Y/N looked back on those times with the utmost care, the gentlest of smiles gracing her bleeding lips, eyes misty as she gazed into the warmth of the similar flames.

However, Y/N could also look back on how things ended; the time when Amara asked her, tearfully, if she could be her comrade during _the Greatest Doom._

Y/N only recalled last—of the blood on her hands after she had finished asking.

_Don’t become like me, Amara_ , Y/N recounted the words that she said to her—before she pierced Amara with her sword, r _un away with your mother, run before everything ends,_ her brood thoughts were silenced by the slicing of metal against ripping flesh.

_Nadia…oh, that sweet woman._

Y/N could never forget how she could understand why Aruul would be so bent on revenge, wanting to take her life to do justice for the girls she took from him. A small part of her sympathized with how he intruded so poorly into her life and the palace, never forgetting the sense of merciless violence she inflicted to ensure he doesn’t do it again. Her grotesque appetites would be her only blessing, in no way, meant for him.

Y/N wanted to end things herself, she thought distantly, wanting to let go of the people who clung to her for guidance, wanting for them to see what she really was and hate her for it. Y/N yearned for their loathing, wanting for the end to be less of a pain.

Y/N couldn’t see what happened after her father was taken by the fire, falling back down into the sea of blood. She wondered endlessly if all of it was his, or if it was from the dogs and hounds that were littered around her feet. The feeling of Aruul’s discarded head rolling at her feet was not forgotten, being only brought to the thought of the pod that had unexpectedly demolished the dining hall.

_Someone will fix it…Gardenia will fix it_ , Y/N thought to herself, almost with relief.

She was being taken by someone…someone who didn’t smell like an Amisian. No, the woman she saw before was much more natural-scented. There were hardly any perfumes other than the fragrance of electrical air, as was usual after emerging from a spacial craft. The aroma was so familiar, Y/N thought fleetingly, closing her eyes, yet so distant—calming even halcyon.

The woman was speaking now, Y/N could see her lips moving, but she could not hear her. 

She shouted something as she blinked, finding themselves in the gardens below, beside the other pods that crashed under the ruins of the dining hall that were just below them, now. Y/N could only assume that the woman had taken her in her arms and fell down to get there quickly, as she guessed that she had not yet lost consciousness. The ambiguity of the nature of the woman was a mystery to Y/N, as she was laid out on the ground carefully.

She watched with tired and drooping eyes as the woman scurried to break open the two pods that had damaged her beloved gardens, finding a ripple of irritation forming in her chest, wanting nothing more than to move her hands and put out the fires that so eagerly crisped away her flowerbeds.

_Took me forever to grow those_ , Y/N thought sadly as a peculiar batch of storm flowers that turned from a steely dark blue into cindering orange and black.

_“Steve!”_ The woman shouted suddenly, having Y/N shift her head back in her direction, sprawling her arms out against the soil even wider, “Steve! Come on. Come on, buddy, get up.”

Her hands wrapped around a particularly muscular and bruised arm, gripping her back as the two struggled to pull each other away from the opening of the pod, moving from its growing flames. This Steve, person, dug his nails into the dirt as he used a lot of his elbow strength to crawl away, holding onto his free hand, what looked to be a perfectly-rounded shaped shield. There was some skill in his technique, as Y/N observed, watching as he used a part of his knees to boost him forward faster.

It sure saved a hell of a lot of time for the woman, who let go of his hand as soon as he got out, moving to the next pod. 

_He resembled a grown version of Wisp_ , Y/N thought faintly, _his hair looked a bit the same._

Y/N nearly laughed if there wasn’t any pain in her ribs; _Wisp could never build so much muscle._

She yanked the bent opening of the hatch, yelling out in minimal shock as a hand already shot from the gaping darkness. The image of a dark-haired man, sputtering and coughing hoarsely, emerged from the darkness of the machine, where Y/N found him particularly different as his eyes flickered feverishly in every direction, as if he didn’t even know that land existed.

Red hair, black hair, and blonde hair, Y/N observed with fluttering eyes, specimens that have such different skin, they don’t smell the same, they have such indistinctive yet varying features.

**_Terran_** , Y/N thought breathlessly, _they were humans._

“Where the hell are we? Is this the place?” His voice came out heatedly, eyes pointing towards Y/N’s body on the ground, “Who the hell is that!?”

“We ended up crashing a party,” The woman helped Steve to his feet, brushing away the soot and ash that rested on her shoulders, “Saved that one, over there, from getting killed. Don’t know what from, though.”

The man hoisted himself from the opening of the pod, hitting the ground with ease as he rubbed his hands together, disturbed from the cold, even as he stood next to the arising flames. Y/N shifted suddenly, being lifted from the ground with delicacy, eyes barely taking in the bluish shades of Steve, who looked unflatteringly worried, placing the shield on his back.

_“Natasha,”_ Steve looked at the woman, “What the hell happened here?”

“This isn’t a house,” The dark-haired man spat as he wiped away the streaks of black on his arms, “ _Jesus Christ._ This is a _palace_. And I’m guessing that, that one in your arms, owns the place.”

His fingers come to his ear, pressing and tapping against something that hangs and hums.

“ _JARVIS?_ Come in, buddy. Are you there?”

Natasha looked back to the palace that was beginning to move from its ruined foundations, picking up the cries and clamor of people who were starting to swarm and take back control of the damages. There were various lights, all had seen, moving in formations along the sides of the towers and through the rings of the gardens.

_Guards_ , Y/N thought simply.

She would have cursed if she could, instead, shifting her bloody fingers towards the gazebo of the garden’s second ring, where Steve had been the only one that noticed.

“Over there,” Steve commanded firmly, beginning to run, “Come on!”

The two followed after, running along the bank of the lake that reflected both moonlight and torches of Amisians who were beginning to take cover of the grounds. Steve had almost been seen, but he managed to tuck and roll in through the entrance of the small structure, pressing his hands against the small of her back as she fell into the velvet of the cushions that were discarded on the ground. Natasha rolled, too, and the man did a poor attempt at a roll. Instead, he hit his head on the pillar.

Steve shifted Y/N to rest on the cushions, frowning as his fingers traced along the edges of the wound on her cheek, examining the other wounds like scrapes on her knees, bruises on her neck, and a deep gash on her stomach. Y/N shifted under his burning gaze, earning a startled expression.

“Hey, hey…” Steve soothed lowly, his gaze trained on hers to find any movement in her pupils.

“Water…” Her voice whispered weakly, her lungs aching and burning, “Get me…”

Steve, though he was surprised of how she spoke, immediately went down to the clasp of his belt, grasping and popping open a flask of water, putting it to her lips.Expecting to drink it, however, Y/N pursed her lips tightly, weakly swatting away the vial and did her best to boost the strength in her backside as she pushed herself upwards, sitting along the bench and tilting towards the protruding rails. She was surprised by the guiding hand that helped her into a crooked slouch, but immediately tried to grasp and pull her back as she began to rise to her knees.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hey, wait a minute,” Natasha tried to soothe Y/N, but was promptly ignored, “Tony, get her to—“

“—Hey, missy, don’t try to move, alright? You’re in a pretty bad shape…”

Tony had flattened his palm on her shoulders, keeping her pulled back from falling off the edge of the gazebo that overlooked the beginning of the lake. Before he reeled back his elbow, readying himself to catch her, he swallowed dryly as Y/N gave no response.

Her body fell back, plummeting over the railing and into the deep, black abyss. Tony grabbed nothing but air, ensuing a round of shock.

“What the hell!?” Tony leaned over the edge of the railing where the others joined him, “What kind of mental place did we end up on!?”

Natasha had put a leg over the rail, however, Steve already dived into the water first.

They didn’t attempt to shout nor pull him back, as they seemingly had found hope in their friend who disappeared beneath the watery black. His shield was still attached to him, yet giving them to ponder whether or not that was ultimately a good thing. 

“JARVIS? JARVIS? Hurry it up, will you? I need you to get me a scan of the water.” Tony pressed into his comm once more, but was only met with an auto-mated voice.

**_“Reconnecting…”_ **

Tony and Natasha watched the darkness move in violent ripples. Dark waves, transparent pearls were their only remainder of their presence, finding no bubbles arising to the surface. Natasha succumbed with dread, beginning to move another leg over the railing. Meanwhile, Tony’s eyes desperately searched for any sign of movement in the black. 

“Come on, Cap.” Tony whispered, pleadingly.

The abyss moved after the silence.

Water exploded from the darkness. A vortex of some unnatural force of nature had risen the lake in a singular form. Threads of streams, tendrils of liquid were striking and coiling around the gazebo’s varying pillars, crushing them to splinters from its immense pressure and strength. In some form, one could say that there was some aura of hatred that caused the liquified masses to move, but none could be so certain.

Natasha and Tony nearly held each other as they jumped away, eyes wide with terror as the tip of the vortex dispelled, revealing Y/N Skaraeith, holding Steve by the scruff of his tactical suit. They were both taken by how they emerged dry and safe—suddenly being taken themselves seconds later by the tendrils that wrapped around their waists before ascending towards the sky. They screamed and kicked at the air, struggling to grip the water that bound them. As strong as it was, however, the water phased easily through their fingers.

Natasha’s vision was full of formations of grey and black clouds, warping over her eyes that tightened against the force of the winds that whipped through her hair. She nearly let out a scream, but Tony was already doing that for her. She raised her head higher, feeling the cool slickness of the water, finding Y/N above them all, heading towards the direction of, what looked to be a valley of heavy, white mist.

“Trees!” Tony screamed, writhing and thrashing, “We’re gonna hit those—“

The group descended into the White Hollow woods, finally safe from Echealion.

  
  


『✭』

  
  


The star wasn’t actually a star, Steve finally managed to figure out; it was another ship.

When the Abeona’s outer shell was blasted into the void of space in a great, big ball of fire, leaving nothing but shredded metal and electricity crawling up whatever was left on the walls, Steve had spent those few seconds between panicking and yelling for Natasha and Tony to send out one final prayer to whoever would be able listen.

The drop would be eternal, he thought, there would be no one to hear him and his last prayer, let alone hear his screams. Their ship wouldn’t reach their destination and wouldn’t get the chance to be saved. Partly, in fact, Steve thought of Peggy, finding himself regretting that he didn’t take the chance to visit her on his day off last weekend.

She was alive, Steve recounted breathlessly, reminded of how bewildered and relieved he was when he first discovered her file, marked as retired and not dead—living comfortably in Washington.

Yet, Tony had pulled him from the ground, he remembered after being yanked out of his head, yelling and screaming at him for him to move, Natasha as well. All the while choking on their air that was quickly slipping from every one of their lungs. He saw nothing in that gaping hole of the Abeona as the other ship fired into another place, nothing at all. Not even the stars that had blazed once so brilliantly in his eyes, frightened at the sudden vision of nothing.

Steve wondered if his true fear was the world he lived in, or the ones that he didn’t. 

Alas, all was silent and tumbling with smoking, flaming, electrical air as all three of them had managed to crawl into the pods, with JARVIS recalibrating and acting quickly to detach the second ring of thrusters, navigating, and giving some collateral damage as the pods broke away from the sheared metal rings.

The opposing ship reared the tip of the nose, dipping forward where barely anyone could see the disgruntled and foreboding faces behind the thick glass. They were shouting orders, commanding for the operatives to fire again. Steve didn’t bat an eye, reaching for his pocket, fighting the strong gravity that held down his bones. The remote rested loosely in his fingers, before fumbling as he pressed the button.

Finally, in a great effulgence, before Tony’s eyes, the multimillion dollar ship exploded from Steve’s remote. 

God, the twenty-first century was _terrifying_. 

Steve couldn’t fathom how he would be in the clutches of a woman next, who was near-dying just a minute before falling head-first into a lake, and emerging from the water and with it, carrying them all high into the sky. He held his breath the entire way, although glad that he was rising rather than falling. He didn’t oppose struggling, but chose not to act on it either.

“ _Trees!_ ” He heard Tony scream, prompting Steve to look out into the mist that took an expansive mass, “We’re gonna hit those—“

All three of the humans screamed, breaking through the canopy of white with only scratches and small cuts to endure. They all crashed through numerous thick and thin branches, some getting caught in Steve’s hair, only for it to be replaced by a bigger one as he was finally let go. The liquid tendril that was carrying him by the scruff of his suit ripped away and dripped down from the collision of the trees, adding to the numerous flows of rivers and puddles that the woman landed first into. 

Steve felt his arm reach over to his back, his fingers eagerly wiggling to grasp the edge of his shield just behind him as he continued to break through the canopies. However, with each branch that slapped against his wrist, his hands recoiled outwards from his body to steady his landing, as he couldn’t estimate how far the ground was.

She was trained, most obviously, wasting nothing but a look as she raised her head towards the sky to the three humans about to plummet without any sort of cushion to break their fall. The rivers then twisted and turned with the motions of her hands, spiraling in sinuous forms, coming together in a great bulbous mass for the three humans to dive into. Steve almost held his breath as he dropped, floating within the hovering pool. They fell into the spherical torrent, engulfed from the neck-up.

“Oh, my god. She’s gonna drown us,” Steve heard Tony yell, seeing his eyes averted towards the bottom, “Are we gonna drown!?”

_This feels familiar_ , Steve thinks distastefully as he begins to shiver terribly, _and the shield was no longer an option, now._

Splinters of ice begin climbing upon their aquatic cage, trapping them inevitably in a body of water that was slowly beginning to add spare amounts of pressure, slowly crushing each of their lungs. Despite surviving and breathing on smoke, electricity, and the void of space, Steve found it utterly traumatically incredulous that ice would be the thing that could kill their lungs.

“Stop!” The woman tried to yell, yet interrupted by Tony’s frequent and incoherent hollering, “Stop it! I said stop!”

“You’re gonna want to find another way to quiet him down,” Natasha shouted as she sneered, however, Steve couldn’t tell who it was towards, “Lord knows he’s verbally equipped to yap at least one of our ears off.”

The volume that reverberated from Natasha’s throat was barely enough to overpower Tony’s. Partly, Steve could understand his overwhelming distress, feeling a spirit travel through the rivulets of his nerves. Although, they felt much chillier now as the ice had finally expanded to his jawline. In one way or another, this was considered an exaggeration.

The woman seemed to take note of it, too; the way her face scrunched in a tight crinkle. In partial annoyance and partial disgust. Steve watched as her fingers spiraled once more. In that instant, Tony’s infernal whining ceased into nothing but muffled and shivering grunts. The soldier turned his head to the best of his ability, hearing the ice splinter and crack from his movements around his neck to see that Tony’s mouth was covered in thick frost. His lips ran blue while his skin paled white, yet the three simultaneously found relief.

“Okay, okay. Let’s all just take a moment to relax and figure things out.”

Natasha had thrown Steve a pointed, warning glance in that instance, to which she received a crooked and trying slant of his mouth, shaping and forming into words she did not understand. He knew well of their goals, their main objective. Fury would have their heads should they forget. but, finding that they were, in fact, in the clear for an apparent distress signal, Steve took the liberty of finding a new opportunity. Natasha was more than skeptical, of course, as she had seemed to understand—mouthing and snapping at him with protesting hisses—to which he adamantly ignored.

His head veered back to the woman who had nearly slumped to her knees, heaving with ragged breaths as she maintained her energy to at least spare them a most heated glare. She was suffering from previous wounds—cuts, burns, and scrapes alike—everything that he had seen and had more than once. It just so happened for it to occur all at once. Yet, she remained standing.

“ _Humans_ ,” A word that echoed throughout the forest in an accent that neither Steve nor Natasha could not place anywhere on Earth, as her very tongue was not fit for human words, “Why are you humans here?”

_She was speaking first_ , Steve thought to himself, swallowing thickly, _what am I gonna say? What_ ** _can_** _I say?_

“We received unidentified activity circulating around these coordinates,” Natasha responded before Steve could, nearly grimacing from her metallic and humdrum answer, “The phenomenon was labeled as a distress signal. We were the first and most considerable candidates for the job, so here we are. Now it appears that we are now the… _cause_ of the distress.”

Her actions are timid, however, they are not at all amateur. She crossed her footwork together, her legs woven in a pattern that Steve can’t indicate at his height, suddenly fearful. He felt like he was caught in her web, a prey stalked by its predator. Her eyes are twinkling in ways of which he had never seen before, looking up at them as if downward. 

_What was she?_ Steve wanted to ask but left the question dangling at the tip of his tongue.

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Steve says instead, gaining her blazing eyes, “Our orders were recon only. But…someone shot us down.”

She looked hesitant—the way her spine recoiled, her brows knitting into a tight furrow as she studied them closer. Her hands that lingered above her shoulders begin to slowly cascade, bringing the ice with it. She fights to maintain its weight, struggling to even lift her fingers as the ice rips away from each of their necks, even Tony’s mouth, as the frost returns heatless to the air. The impact of the moisture carries on to the mist that shrouds thickly around the forest. 

Her hands are tattered and scarred, being brought down to the soil that shudders upon her touch. The drier patches of earth tremble beneath the pressure of her palms, the pads of her fingers turning over and creating divots. There is an impatience, a bead of sweat rolling down her temple, where Steve finds a light tinge of pity. 

Water begins to pull away in massive streams, pouring back into the rivers that take away from the three humans in a quick, fluid motion. Natasha moves quickly to help Tony from his knees, frowning as he begins to touch his frostbitten lips, sputtering inaudible words that the woman didn’t seem to mind. The soldier stood from the cold, surprised that he came out of the ice dry. 

“Who are you that you might be considered possible candidates?” Her eyes move up and down at them, “Humans aren’t known to be…particularly vigilant beings.”

“We’re worthy of much, I assure you.” Tony remarks with an arched brow, his tongue dragging weakly against his blue lips.

“ _Worthy_ …” Her eyes rise to the sky, a light scoff leaving her chest, trailing with nothing but mist, “I would’ve liked to formally welcome humans to our planet…but it looks like we won’t be having any of that.”

Though her arms spread out widely in a small welcoming gesture, Steve glared partially at Tony as he nearly jumped out of his own skin, alerted and immediately on his guard. He flashed a look of solidarity, feeling ashamed of thinking a bit too quickly and stuffs his shivering hands in his pockets, taken by the snow that falls on the tip of his nose.

_Winter is the same here, it seems_ , Tony thinks wistfully.

“Welcome to Amis.” She says a bit flatly, flashing the increments of a sad yet homely smile. 

Steve stifles from its sudden warmth.

“I am Natasha Romanoff. This is Tony Stark,” Natasha gestures a hand to the man who reluctantly pulls his hand out of his pocket to send a small and nervous wave, “And this is Steve Rogers.”

In his tired, slate-blue eyes, there is nothing but otherworldly and ambitious features in his eyes. She looks so incredibly human, but at the same time, not at all. He studies her smile that brings a formidable and serene warmth that is up to par with her blazing eyes, controlled and fluid as it graces him once more. Her gaze is not at all feverish, but wild and keen, studying him, too. He had already heard how she speaks, a tongue that peaks through her teeth that she flares, a mouth that speaks hundreds of unknown languages, he is sure.

Their hands grip together, firm and nearly overpowering on her behalf.

_Strong_ , Steve notes carefully, flashing an unequal and tight stretch of his lip.

“Y/N,” She announces to the three humans, “Y/N Skaraeith.”

  
  


『✭』

  
  


Humans they were, but not simple. 

Y/N had taken in the smallest of reactions their bodies had to give as she gestured any form of kindness. They made shelter from the discarded branches and large padded leaves, tied together with the Swiss army multi-tool that Steve brought from a satchel hanging from the clasp of his belt, an essential that Steve was stubborn on giving up. The winds had been strangely kind, singing only distantly of a song that was neither heavy nor chilling. It was a tender thing, really. Y/N had breathed in its voices with a familiar scent leaving her chest, eyes flickering and lost within the dancing orange and warmth of their bonfire.

Snowflakes and powdered white tickled her cheeks, causing Y/N to comply with her environment and pull the wolfish fur higher on her shoulders, relishing in its little comfort. It still smelt of blood and fire, finding it explicably difficult not to think about what happened just an hour ago. Her skin ran with gooseflesh, negative energies manifesting and spiraling down the enormity of her spine.

_Father_ , Y/N thinks sadly, _I’m so sorry, father…_

She tries to decipher what happened, what caused her father to fall in an ocean of black, red, and green. When she blinks, she can think of nothing but the final word that she could barely manage to hear—the name of her childhood. She shuts her eyes, trying her best to balance her senses that are protruding with violence and grief, her arms shutting tight around her body that trembles, ripping away what thick fur and scaled straps are left hanging around her form. What semblance of remorse is left in her tired self is pulled away, taken with a gentle hand, by the humans who finally settled in for the night.

They’re exceptionally well-built, Y/N notes, carding her fingers through her tangled hair. 

There is the briefest amount of likeness in her eyes that flash for only a second, as Tony takes his seat on a chipping, wooden log. His hands rub together, hovering just above the fire that excels a warmth that he feels even at the tips of his toes. Y/N reminds herself that these people were Terran, humans who were potent with significant weaknesses, even unphysical. 

“It doesn’t seem like you get many humans for visitors.” 

The voice of Natasha Romanoff reaches her ears, the only other woman Y/N had any sort of comfort in meeting. It peeked through the veil in Y/N’s eyes that was shrouded with horrific reds and past violences. She had the tendency to jolt when she hears her, giving only a twitching and trying smile that barely rises the peaks of her cheeks. The woman had a strong morale, Y/N observes, almost frowning from it. She nearly sees the cold-blooded soldier she was meant to be, however, she sees the gentler one in Steve as he considerably smiles at her—assuring her that they were okay.

Y/N releases her hands from her arms, expelling the cage from herself.

“No, humans never come here,” Y/N’s eyes then glisten with interest, “We, Amisians, go to Earth sometimes, though. It’s always so much fun, there’s always something new happening.”

Steve couldn’t disagree, finding himself reliving his memories in the midst of his frenzied mind. Explosions, dances, wars, erosions, literatures, riots, families, love, and loss, they all come to him in different and opaque fragments, filling him to the very brim with humanity and a great sense of swelling content. Though he could live without the violence, Steve found himself at the very least thankful he could learn to live with the lessons it taught him. One punch after the other.

“I can’t remember the last time I went to Earth,” She says almost sadly, eyes fleeting in a distant stare, “It’s been so long. But, there was a name for it…of that era when I visited…Oh, what was it called?”

Tony releases a small laugh, scalping the snow from his hair.

“Were you there during _2012?_ Gotta say, that wasn’t one of our best years…” Tony ignores Steve and Natasha’s pointed glance, “Maybe the _90’s?_ I figured I might be able to place you—“

“— _Pangea_.” Y/N finally says, causing the three humans to go agape with tremendous shock.

_She wasn’t seriously that old, is she?_ Steve thought, ironically to himself.

Yet, the genuine sincerity of her smile is the purest form of a happy memory, Steve sees and is taken by, her body loosens exponentially as her head drifts towards a faraway star. Her eyes gleam and burn with purity in the darkness of her pupils, the likeness of which Steve can sympathize with as he manipulates his memories that gain his favor. 

“You…” Tony starts with a gaping expression, but cannot, for the life of him, continue.

_This girl looked twenty-five!_ Tony thought, finding the time to admire between his shock and disbelief.

“Mm, Pangea was a wonderful time. When the continents split in two, you could see the innards of the Earth flood in such beautiful waterways. And, when the mountains became valleys, there would be a hundred new ones above it,” Y/N sighs, “My siblings and I had a contest, you see. Whoever could reach the top of the highest mountain before it crumbled could get a room in the highest tower of the palace,”

Y/N beams at the three.

“I won, _surprisingly_.”

The finality of her honesty, their last grip of believing her unknown reality, was the way she laughed it off. She wasn’t often used to being confronted by people from other planets, Natasha could easily tell, the way her face creased into nervousness then into a faint lack of sympathy into her own words. There was no round of emoting, no way to console her as Y/N shook her head, giggling brokenly and faintly. Natasha and the other two could only laugh with her, quietly and as if to themselves.

“Sounds like you’ve lived quite a long life.” Steve says with a sympathetic smile.

The Amisian nods, bringing her knees closer to her chest, suddenly timid.

“I have, haven’t I?” Y/N drew back her head from the sky, eyes lingering to those below, frowning, “I feel like it’s going to end soon, though. With all these… _mishaps_ that suddenly keep happening. I just don’t think I can…”

Her eyes are wide at the visage of concern in her midst, her hands coming higher from her arms to raise in defense.

“Oh! Please, don’t blame yourself for your abrupt presence. I didn’t mean it like that. I might even thank you. Things were already…bad before you came.”

Neither Steve nor Tony knew what to speculate, what to say before Natasha spoke for them. They had both landed outside of the Echealion, they didn’t know what to expect as Natasha had come running with the woman around her arms, injured and panicking. 

“Whatever happened looked pretty messed up,” Natasha frowned when Y/N did, “You were injured before that, weren’t you? The three cuts on your cheek…”

Y/N refused to touch the wound, wondering if it even healed as she nodded slowly.

“Yes, there was a… _um_ …I don’t even know, actually. It all happened so fast. People were just running and screaming…then one of our planet’s higher authorities…attacked us. They ambushed us and killed so many of our people. Then, you showed up…and now we’re here.”

Natasha herself couldn’t even describe what she had seen. Besides the roaring fires were corpses of many shapes and sizes. They were all dressed so differently, they looked so differently, yet Natasha understood that they were all the same—Amisians. There were bodies everywhere beneath the rubble, cascading into fires and burning ash pits that Natasha could vividly remember its grotesque scent. She also remembered the way Y/N crumpled into the arms of who she mentioned was her father. 

She then remembered the way he died; pooling in black, red, and green.

The figure, Natasha glared downward, those figures behind him.

“There was a _man_ …” Natasha suddenly spoke, gaining expectant eyes, “A young man beside an older woman. He had…glowing, green eyes. I couldn’t see him well, but he…he was the one that took down that man you were hugging. The man that…”

Natasha couldn’t finish as she listened to the vacant breathing of Y/N’s chest. She had her own sympathies. Any half-baked response she would give to any normal human, she would do so without batting a perfectly-curled eyelash. But Y/N wasn’t human, she doesn’t know what she is, only what she can do. 

Natasha’s curiosity dares not to seek that far should she continue.

However, after the contempt silence finally settles, Tony breaks it with the sheer force of his abrupt scoff, earning her own and Steve’s hash and silencing glare.

“Hiding in shadows…and glowing green eyes? Who is this guy? _Danny Phantom?_ ”

Y/N blinks.

“No, it was Krow.”

Everyone with any morsel of a soul shuddered under the thundering hostility in her voice. As if the wind of resentment had tangled itself around their lungs that deprived them of any easy breathing, the three humans looked at Y/N who stirred in resentment and negativity. Her eyes were no longer lost in a waking dream, but filled with reliving glares of agony and pain. Her breaths became concentrated yet ragged, hissing through her parted lips that were suddenly wrapped around the corner of her thumb of which she began to gnaw.

Her teeth ripped away at the pink and tender flesh, rubies sprouting moments later. Blood streamed from her palms, fresh and warm. Yet, Y/N did not flinch from any of the inflicted pain. She only shook her head and continued the motions with an unwavering and concerning ease.

“ _Krow_ ,” Her voice, as if it was made from the growl of an animal and of the roaring of seas, filled the air with distaste, “Krow…I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I fell for it. He was taking orders from her…that woman…that _bitch_ …I told him, I told him to do everything from now on for our sake,”

Steve is taken by the pearls that brim the corners of her eyes that tighten, glossy and pure. Y/N has no strength to fight them anymore, letting her own rivers pour freely, with no regard for the humans who quietly panicked in their seats on the Amisian soil. Natasha moves first, thankfully, beginning to console her in the only physical way that would assure them the safety of their own lives. Her palm flattens and rubs along the bruises of Y/N’s arched back, soon welcoming her into her own arms as the poor girl crumbles in defeat.

_Father_ , she thinks, as if pleading with every ounce of her soul, _I’m so sorry, father._

“I should have…I should have…”

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Steve’s voice carried in a volume that Y/N could barely grasp, “What happened tonight was awful. This, Krow, person must’ve been really important to you. But, it wasn’t your fault. You have no reason to blame yourself for his decisions.”

Y/N doesn’t sob, nor stifle and wipe away the salted tears that dribbled from the underside of her chin. She only frowns deeper, eyes fluttering open with a hint of reluctance. The way her pupils move in quick fragments is enough to let Steve know that there was more to the event that was told. He can understand death, loss, and grief. However, he can’t understand her.

“But, I do, Steve. I have every right to,” Y/N’s tone is lower and stronger, “I killed my enemy’s daughter…I-I butchered his wife…”

Y/N brought her head down, as if bowing and asking for forgiveness to her old gods’ incarnates.

_You must have had a reason_ , he wanted to say, _you must have done it against your will._

But Y/N did nothing but ask for forgiveness, eyes glimmering with acceptance of a task she did, indeed, commit.

“I did it to end the war…I did it because of the Greatest Doom.”

  
  


『✭』

  
  


Y/N had stayed awake as the humans slept. 

The White Hollow, though cold, could be a place of harboring warmth when needed. She could feel the lost souls of the forest greet her with the moan of the wind, voices of the past ringing in her ears that brought welcoming chills down her spine. Y/N manifested what she could to keep the moisture from the fire, wanting for the sprout to last at least until an hour before dawn arrives. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose and ears flushed red as she came closer to the singing plume, finding herself adrift in the warmth, almost swimming in it.

She salvaged what she could of the snow that curved from each of their presences, forming what seemed to be a frost replica of the Echealion. Y/N drew back her hand to create the long and surrounding foundations of the Seeing Gates. With a twirl of her finger, Y/N managed to begin the exterior designs of the rings of her beloved garden, including the gazebo that she most greatly cherished.

However, what was brought after being reminded of the structure nearly tore her heart in half. 

Her beloved friend, Krow Vulnir, had just become her enemy.

Y/N held herself, recounting the names in her head.

_Lynara, Pegarius, Oly, Fran, Viator…Brena, Quirro, Derose, Calandra, Amaris…Jenri, Mrozek, Luisa…and many, many more._

Y/N lips turned downwards, her head sinking into her arms as she pulled her knees tighter to her chest.

_His name…his name…_

Things then begin to click together as she remembers the name. Y/N is blessed by the last puzzle pieces of clarity as her mind finally comes together, like cogwheels that finally turn in the furthest pits of her mind. She finds his words, reminded of them, in actuality. Evidence, she wants to call it, is evidence of a bigger crime that Y/N had suddenly realized that she let slip under her nose. She almost jolts herself upward, but remains leaned against the trunk of the great tree that has a never-ending shower of delicate snow.

Y/N’s astounded blinks are her only physical reaction, her mentality bouncing off the walls as she begins to recount everything that Krow has told her.

_I spoke with the Sand Hounds and gave them a warrant. But before I could even get into the temple, they told me he was let go._

_Cervantes_ , Y/N finally thinks, _he should’ve known about Cervantes being missing in the Irie._

Y/N could only speculate that Krow had maintained Aruul’s silence as Cervantes was captured, beginning to feel a rising pressure in her neurons as she is threatened by the thought of Krow using one of her siblings as leverage, already beginning to feel her fingers crack and twitch in a much more physical reaction. 

_Oryosi informed me that Aruul and his son are alright. Angry, but okay. If they have another problem with you, they’ll take it up with me._

_The son of a bitch knew_ , she thought with disdain, _he told me that he spoke with Oryosi and he lied to me._

Now, Y/N understands why Krow was treating Oryosi so harshly during their travels to the Dagan domain, reminded bitterly of his harsh treatment towards the mercenary—the same mercenary that Krow had threatened with his life. He failed his mission, Y/N remembers solemnly, Krow had every apparent right to be so cruel, angry he was.

“Gods…” Y/N whispers tightly, a hand brushing the sides of her temple that suddenly bead with sweat.

_How could she have been so easily fooled?_

Krow was in control. He was _always_ in control.

Something was shining against her eyes in that next instant, revealing all who slept the entirety of her tears that poured from her eyes. There was not a lick of sadness as she brought a hand to her eyes to shield the sunlight, no sense of hesitance in her movements nor any trembling of pain as she shifted her legs from under her weight, rising to stand again. 

As she rose, the snow fell.

What was unveiled before Y/N’s eyes was a phenomenon of irony—what semblance the broken, old gods could muster to give away a cruel joke. The rising sun was sparkling with the movement of snow. The powdering of baby blue and pristine white were shimmering rain, reflecting off of Y/N’s eyes that blinked away any remnant of lamentation. Her heart wrenched and ached at the sight, feeling nothing but an unwelcoming and mocking heat that warmed her soul. Y/N began to cry again, picking up the last of her bearings before raising her head to the beaconing sky.

She took in a breath, the hinges of her jaw unwinding as she wanted to let out a scream that could rip apart the sky, bring down the hierarchy of stars, and leave nothing but the voiding black of the night once more—the night that her father commanded and loved so dearly.

But most of all, she wanted to see the storm. She didn’t have the heart to see any more of snowblight any longer, desiring to see the final stormblight that could tear the land into shredded bits of dirt, marble, gold, and blood. 

However, before she could ruin the world, Grey Blood had blocked away the sun with his wings.

Y/N had seen a different gold; his gold, basking in it, swelling within that different form of warmth. The dragon fire came so easily, as the beast shrieked a song that awoke the humans with a start. They all looked to Y/N, of whom they assumed let out that horrendously loud screech, yet questioned as to why she held her arms open to the sun. However, she was attacked by it; a sun that was much darker and much smaller, leading them to become surprised and curious about the sudden creature.

Grey Blood nestled himself in Y/N’s arms, who took to him with ease and for once, was thankful of the smell of smoke and blood reaching her nose. His snout brushed the underside of her cheek in delight, as the half-blood had thought for a moment that he perished with the demolition of the pods and the dining hall. 

Tony rubbed his eyes, blinking and throwing his head in several directions, as if to get his brain working to actually make out what exactly he was seeing—questioning if a dragon really had just attached itself onto Y/N.

“A dragon,” Steve croaked hoarsely, eyes derived from drowsiness, “It’s a _dragon_.”

“His name is Grey Blood,” Y/N faintly smiles as she comes closer to Steve, her hand guiding him to stroke the spine of her grey, “I almost forgot that you humans don’t have these mystical creatures on your planet. Not many of them do.”

She glances at them with enthused eyes, “Come on. It’s just a dragon.”

“ _Just_ a dragon.” Steve echoes with arched brows, where she waved a hand.

“He’s just a young one. Only a child.”

Natasha is immediately taken with the creature, her fingers tracing along the leathery wings, and his ivory and obsidian black horns and frills. She found a likeness with the imaginary and the mythical, intrigued by their ambiguity, their strangeness, and their overall nature that made them so much different than other humans or animals. Yet, as she heard Grey Blood chirp and screech like a vulture, her reality is not far behind. 

“You must have flown all night to get here,” Y/N murmurs to the beast, “Frightened by all that destruction…trying finding your own way out, poor thing.”

Steve furrows his brows at Tony who keeps himself at a safe distance. All he focuses on is the beast’s teeth—thorn-like and in many numbers. His hand absentmindedly runs across his arm, imagining unconsciously of the wound he may be inflicted with, cautious of his saliva that may cause the mark to fester. Yet, he is reminded of his manners as Steve finally clears his throat.

“That thing’s your pet?” Tony asks, earning a trying smile from Y/N.

“Not a pet, but, more of a companion.”

Tony shrugs with a slow nod. Though he wouldn’t admit it, he was quite taken with the idea of myths being real as he came to meet a certain thunder god. He studied the physics of his movements, lore, and supposed strengths and weaknesses about his abilities. However, somewhere along the way, he was immersed in the intricate details within the world of mythology for that one evening. He remembers the edges of each page that he held onto, his eyes absorbing every detail of runes and designs of beasts and men. As he moved closer, a hand extended and open, Tony let himself be closer to the creature as he slowly expelled any misgivings he had of his teeth.

The Avengers are enthralled by the beings of other worlds, in that moment.

Suddenly, however, Grey Blood snapped his jaws at Tony who shrieked and jumped away.

_“Jesus!”_ Tony shouts breathlessly, eyeing at Y/N who seemed alerted by Grey Blood who begins to spread his wings, taking flight and trilling lowly in a loud song. 

_“Whoa!”_ Steve exclaims, moving back, gripping Natasha by the shoulders and pulling her, too.

Y/N looks to where his snout points, frowning at the direction of the eastern sun. Her instincts act in a mere second; drawing her palms downwards to the ground, her finger curling with anticipation, feeling the moisture lug from under her shifting skin. Her eyes move within the shadows of the trees that have yet to break from the dawn, frowning.

“He senses something.”

The three humans heed the warning, their heads turning to the same direction, as if like clockwork. Their eyes cast to the shadows below the sun, waiting for any sign of movement before it manages to break through the trees. Steve reaches over his shoulder, unclasping his shield from against his back and straps it around his arm, leveling it high below his chin. Natasha brandishes her own arms, unfolding the sleeves of her tactical suit to reveal her Widow’s Bite, easing herself low as the electricity cracked against the chilling air, her fingers wrapped loosely around their flexible triggers.

On the other hand, Tony was still tapping his finger relentlessly in the side of his ear-piece, mumbling incoherent phrases into the air, even leaving a few curses here and there. Though, he was suddenly more focused from his reconnecting device and onto the shadows that emerged from the trunks in a wicked speed, earning attentive eyes.

_“Look out!”_

Natasha rolled forward in front of Stark, shoving her fists forward to pull the triggers of her bracelets. The electrical discharge reverberated and coursed through the figure that had caught the snapping and singed energy, full-force in the stomach. Y/N had seen the weapon electrocute through the enemy, stunned by the thrill of the man who had wildly writhed and spazzed in the snow.

_A Dog_ , Y/N thinks quickly, kicking away his body that she encases in the ice that forms from the powdered white.

Steve had moved next, finding an agile figure approaching from the west, almost up to par with his own speed. His shield resounds metallically as a forged spear collides with it, almost like the sound of a chiming bell. He throws the shield in the most formidable direction, where his fist reaches out to strike in the other. Y/N watches him for only a second, but had already absorbed his years of grueling training and hints of polished enhancements in his movements. 

Steve is an expert combatant, holding his own against a trained Hound that slices his spear through the air, the tip missing him by a small amount of distance. Y/N finds his movements based on his levels of power, watching as his strikes are fierce and as quick as he can manage, throwing down the Hound with a great twist of his leg that cracks the man’s spine in half.

She nearly winces in sympathy, but is merciless as she manifests the moisture in great torrents.

Y/N unleashes her pent wrath upon a Dog who stupidly charges head-on. Her arm lifts and slams downward with great strength, relishing her work as the water from her hands extends in a great length, whipping her pursuer downward and into the snow and mud, pleased by the sight of his blood running down the tip of her clearer waters.

Natasha and Steve simultaneously take down the Hound and Dog that burst from the canopy. Their reflexes come into play as snow kicks up against the air, blinding them with pure white before Natasha could finish the job with a deadly, flying scissor kick. Her thighs clasp against her assailant's neck and twists, the satisfying crack that happened under a snapping twig made Tony’s spine shudder, rolling under Steve’s leg as he jumped, desperate to reach JARVIS.

“Come on, buddy. It’s now or never!”

Tony can barely keep his breath steady as he shields himself from a whack against his ribs. The spear twirls in a Dog’s hand, who lets out a ferocious snarl as he bites at the man whose eyes grow wide. Steve is rampant with Natasha, taking down the other, final two opponents that weren’t currently in his field. Y/N was too far from him, still running to get to him, but admittedly was not as fast as the blade of the spear that had come jabbing against his side.

 _“JARVIS!”_ He yells, only to be silenced by a mechanical humming against the bitter cold.

**_“Automated Override Protocol Initiating.”_ **

Something that shines clasps against Tony’s arm, calibrating with his movements, locking and synchronizing with his muscles that tense and come close to his grazed wound. A repulsor fires a beam of hot, fiery energy into the Dog’s stomach that is suddenly burned through. His flesh sizzles and cracks from the remaining sparks, leaving only snow to fill as he fell. 

Y/N sees in the sky as numerous other shiny fragments begin to swarm and rocket through the wind. Leaving a trail of smoke, Tony collects his pieces in various fitting areas of his body. His legs are armored first, then up to his torso. His body glistens red and gold, leaving Y/N to blink with bewilderment, demented from reality, of who she assumes, is tricking her between the present and the past. 

“You should duck, princess!” Tony yells, raising a hand that glows as his face is covered by gold.

Y/N throws her stomach to the ground, hands over her head, coughing a little as the remnants of air in her lungs are knocked right out of her. She doesn’t see what he was firing at, but she certainly heard and felt it. The body collapsed right above her, landing on her legs that immediately shirked away. Her prowess ignites, flipping over to get a better look at the assailant who fell, taken by surprise as he was, in fact, still alive.

Just barely, Y/N thinks as she kicks away the metal, canine mask that shows its teeth, only to reveal a whimpering and tearful face.

A _familiar_ face.

“Princess…” Oryosi breathes, peering above as he flashes a smile.

He looked as if he had seen better days as a failed mercenary, one would think. His hands clamored around his festering wound that Y/N snarls at the scent it brings to her nose. Although he attempts to smile and wave as he rolls on his back, he is suddenly churning to the side, gripping his swelling and bleeding jaw as Y/N had hoisted her knee up to kick his teeth in. Brutal—was the only word that had come to mind for those who had witnessed the gesture, feeling a plethora of both pity and resilience.

“ ** _You_** ,” Y/N’s voice is unbearably low, made with the growls of pure anger, “How _dare_ you come here? You _kept things_ from me, you _conspire_ _against_ me,”

With each of the listings hissing through Y/N’s teeth, she continues to lay waste to the mercenary’s abdomen and ribs. The ball of her heel punctures his bruised lungs, her knee crushes and fractures what’s left of his flopping fingers, and her balled fist finishes what still remains intact of his nose. There is no mercy in Y/N’s wild strength, no sense of restlessness for a person who had lost quite a lot in just one evening.

“I should maim you for what you did, and feed whatever is left of you to Grey Blood,”

Oryosi attempts to speak through his bleeding and bubbling lips, but Y/N silences his pathetic whimpering with another against his jaw. 

_“I should destroy the last morsel of your soul after everything that happened.”_

Something prevents her from delivering the last blow.

Three metal prongs trap and anchor her hands into the dirt that collects her skin, melting and molding over pools of water that fell from her palms. The staff is long and shimmering, gleaming with azurite and amber, jewels of dark honey and deep seas shine in familiarity and clarity, bringing her back to the reality that people were watching.

Y/N turns her head from the red and sees the blue. Her heart is overcome with disappointment, shame, and the purest form of self-loathing. Cyreus is there, who watched as she beat the mercenary into the dirt, surrounded by the humans who could just not look away, either. Their expressions were of a mixture that Y/N didn’t bother to care about—only at the trident that she yanks away from her wrist, throwing it back to Cyreus who catches his weapon with ease.

“That’s enough, Princess Y/N.” The Slaver Prince’s voice is somehow calm and deep.

“Y/N,” She hears Steve next, who she cannot bring herself to look at, “Step away.”

There is an uncomfortable silence accompanied with a pleasant tension.

Y/N practically needs to rip herself away from the ground, crumpling into the arms of Natasha who follows an unheard command, beginning to move in the direction of the rising sun. Y/N can’t see what happened to Oryosi, as he continued to lay motionless in the red and black snow, somehow wanting and desperate to see even the faintest hint of green.

Though, the forest was white along with the snow. 

All Y/N can welcome is the darkness that obscures her vision, closed and relieved.


	13. Pure Light「13」

## 𝐀 𝐌𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞

Nothing about Y/N Skaraeith seemed human, despite her general features.

Not her skin that constantly glowed under any form of light—day or night, radiating a heat and cold that one would feel on a season’s breeze. Not her expressions, constantly twisting and turning in every which way, in every kind of form that was, at this point, impossible to decipher. There were no words to support her stupors of plethoras, unspoken and silent, an attitude that none were even willing to describe. 

The worst part of her lack of human traits were in her eyes. Natasha compared them to reptiles, cats, or even a billy goat’s. The odd, roundness of her pupils was thick and jagged—nearly hexagonal. But the darkness that was held within them, the color of her eyes that burned and simmered with the semblances of her hope, had faded. They were trained completely onto the corpse that was beginning to grow smaller and rot while it laid in red snow, cursing at the cold’s cruelty as it took to the body swiftly, leaving nothing but a foul, chilling stench reaching everyone’s nose.

Steve had never seen such ruthlessness up close and personal before. Nazis were all but a scattered difference, he saved the refugees that had taken the hits, but yet, Steve didn’t allow himself to shy away from the resilience in this Amisian. He felt a stillness, an oddity that kept him going, that kept him from supporting her, even if she did murder someone in cold blood. He understood, but not completely—he could only assume that the man had ruined her life, or so she says.

Y/N kept silent as she trailed behind the group, trudging through the forest to who knows where.

The newcomer was named Cyreus, Steve had learned as he heard Y/N’s single murmur of disbelief as he came to her side. He was a strapping young man, at first glance, but knew that there was more to him than it seemed—something more cautious, being as he was so exceptionally skilled with a lance. Steve quietly wondered to himself the approximate age of this Amisian who guided the group, getting a distinctive feeling that he was younger than Y/N.

Cyreus did not seem to mind the traveling part of humans, only mindful to guide them to safety.

“We’re going across a ravine. It’s not far from here, but we should be cautious.”

Cyreus’s explanation didn’t seem to pass well with Tony, who knitted his brows in a furrow. Though he felt disturbed by the mention of an opportune threat, he was preoccupied by the scan of the White Hollow woods that JARVIS so kindly provided, though the calibration was delayed for quite a while.

“Should we be worried for any more…mythical creatures? Maybe like uh…I don’t know, bloodthirsty _yeti?_ Or a ferocious _werewolf?_ How about a _Loc Ness Monster?_ You guys got any of those running around? Or…swimming around?”

Steve tightened his lip in distaste towards Tony, who kept his arms to himself in a tight cage around his chest. His feverish glances were uncharacteristic, but understandable. Though, Tony could have really shown at least some respect towards the outer-space beings who were more than understanding to them after crash-landing into their capital’s palace.

“You’re a loud and troubling bunch,” Cyreus spoke without looking to them, a tone given that could easily be misplaced, “Princess Y/N has decided to trust you, despite what you are. Whatever she makes of you, I don’t mind. But, please, be wise with the things you say and what you do. These are trying times.”

Natasha had trained her eyes from the patterned fabric of his flowing cloak to the blue of the sky that were shrouded with white. Cyreus was a much more distinctive figure. The initial hostility was all but lost, but mattered still. She blamed her suspicions on her nature, disappointed on being so single-minded that she would even have to put up her guard. This man was leading them to safety, whatever that was, a place that sounded better than the palace that was in literal ruins.

“Are you referring to the palace? Before we ended up crashing? Y/N didn’t tell us much, only that things…went wrong. What happened back there?” Natasha finally asked, an eye hovering over Y/N who still remained silent, who appeared to not have heard their conversation.

Cyreus seemed to be the only person who found the predicament odd, beginning to wonder why Y/N would stray from such a catastrophe. Thinking that it would do no good to think that she was only saving herself, he pulled himself together, straightening his spine.

“Many things. Death and violence. Betrayal, mostly. Y/N’s family has one, extraordinary reputation. It’s amazing that after all this time, no one has taken them down yet.”

Cyreus then thought of the Eidolon, frowning.

“Thousands of years ago, at the end of the Second Age, there was a war that lasted only one, storming morning. The Last War. It was the last real battle that Princess Y/N had ever fought in, the last time she was in command of the Atralis army. It was supposed to hail as Amis’s greatest victory, the most glorious battle ever fought,” Cyreus lowers his head, mindful of the voices he hears in the wind, “Instead, it became Amis’s greatest failure. It was a day of death, blood, and misery.”

The group of Terrans look at each other, then to the forest. Steve is the only person who can vividly imagine the soldiers who ran here, sleeping, fighting, eating, drinking, and dying here—doing anything and everything to keep the violence away from the cities as much as possible. With Cyreus concluding it to be a failure, he silently gives a prayer to those who has fallen.

“I wasn’t born then. So, I couldn’t possibly know who we were fighting. In fact, there might not be an Atralis soul alive who knows. There were so many of them. I doubt it. Not after everything…”

“The Atralis soldiers were all drafted?” Steve inquires with knitted brows.

“Men, women…eldest children,” Cyreus nods, sighing, “Back then, a generation ago, every nation’s leaders except the Irie were run by different people. The Saeles folk, my family that rules eastern Norrath, was once the Onera folk. The Elysium had the Sidias dynasty which became the Pyrraven dynasty…the Terius Tygrum tribe became the Ulor tribe…”

“What happened to the previous ruling families?” Natasha asks, walking down the slope of the barren hills.

“Same thing that happened to everyone,” Cyreus frowns deeper, “They were killed. Buried under the ground we’re walking on, right now. Anyone who was born during the Second Age were slaughtered and forgotten.”

The group halts in their tracks, tossing their heads to Cyreus who doesn’t look too bothered with the recounting memory. However, it was already hard-wired into his brain, as Tony could only describe, he must be so emotionally numb to the event for having to live it for too long. Natasha can’t find her bearings for a moment, almost slipping near Steve had he not caught her wrist.

Steve shakes away his bewildered expression, hardening firmly with a slant across his mouth.

“You’re saying the opposing army killed that many people? All in one morning?”

Cyreus stops, as well. His eyes became fixed upon the horizon that had suddenly become so close, upon relief. The port of Norrath was just beyond the ravine that could be seen just below the next hill, the path blocked by a series of walls that were festering with overgrowth. Cyreus, however, could not blink away the flowers upon it that turned into blood. 

He was imagining all of the bodies that were piled up against the concrete, who were once people that were clawing and crying, climbing over each other, one after the other to try and get to the top. He could see their scratches they made with their nails, the thorns of the vines barely making a divot deeper than that. 

Cyreus can hear the screaming, he could see the red—the red that moved and killed them all.

“Cyreus?” Natasha calls with fearsome worry, her hands hovering just above his skin.

The price of Norrath blinks away his mind, looking to them, smiling bitterly.

“It was not an army that killed those millions. It was only one.”

Before Steve could ask to elaborate, despite his nagging mind not to dare touch further upon the subject, Cyreus rides down the slope of the hill with hurrying ease. The Terrans make way for Y/N who comes, too, sliding upon her knees along the grass and chipping leaves. She even waits for the others to follow, nodding as they acknowledge her with small gestures of thanks. 

Cyreus gathers again near the group, sighing.

“What happened last night was only a ripple on the sea. But I could only imagine the storm that comes afterwards.” 

Steve strayed from the thought of Y/N hurting others for her own benefit, finding that there was a residence and hope for further life that he, and many others could hold a candle to. He thinks of this world, strangely benevolent yet crafty in the arts of war, deciding that every step he takes should be soft and careful—unlike on Earth, where he trips and stumbles over the ground that wasn’t what it used to be seventy years ago. He steps up the slope of a hill, wandering closely to Y/N, of whom he is the most concerned about.

She can hear us, Steve observes pitifully.

“That man that killed…your king,” Natasha began with a hesitant tongue, “Who is…”

“ _Varmint_ ,” Cyreus says sharply, “He…calls himself…Y/N’s most trusted friend. A ward, mostly, but has now become Princess Y/N’s number one enemy.”

_“Gardenia is the enemy.”_

The voice of the half-blood follows through every nook and cranny of the forest.

The group halts at the top of the hill, just near the border of the White Hollow woods and the western Norrathian moat and walls that lead to the central capital. Steve moves first towards Y/N, whose eyes are taken from the ground and up to the beings that glowered above with pity. She is firmer now, angry. Anger was good, Natasha notes as she comes to collect Y/N by the hand. The princess is no longer weary of her actions, welcoming the human’s comfort. Their fingers lace and entwine with placid affection, neither heat nor the cold is willing to surround the tense atmosphere.

Y/N shakes her head, her free hand tightening, the nail of her thumb digging into her scarred palms.

“Krow was always a craven, conniving idiot. But he would never hurt me. Not even after he’d do all of those despicable things.”

The group falls into a reluctant silence, belittling the idea that this varmint man is what Y/N hopes he could be. However, they were mingling in their own heads, thinking of just what Amisians would be capable of in situations of distress, even Cyreus himself, as he guided Y/N towards the front of the group with a slow hand on her shoulder. The last thing he wanted was for Y/N to become a martyr of her own making.

“Come, Y/N,” Cyreus soothes, “We’ll keep you all safe under the protection of our house. But for now, we must leave the Echealion. If Gardenia did send out the order to kill the king, if she has enough control over Krow to make him do that, you need to _vanish_.”

Y/N’s eyes drift to an unseeing dream, through fog, mist, and snow—colors of the palace are fading into the horizon, a place that she bids farewell and sends a last prayer to.

  
  


『✭』

The walls of the condominium were thin—blank and pathless hallways that led into one room and into the next, rusted brown tiles that left soft trails at the soles of one’s feet, like walking on the shore of the sea. Towers, thin and with a forked tip, did well to keep the calm resonance of the increasingly tense group. The humans strayed from the cold and to the fires near the windows to the open sea. The port capital was filled with seldom music and hapless conversation, talking consistently of the events that happened in the Echealion—mourning and crying, blaming the Skaraeith family for the misfortune; blaming Y/N.

Her heart resonants with serenity as she looks to a different horizon, calm and swaying like the sea below. She only thinks of her sibling’s safety desperately, wondering and saying wistful prayers to her family that still remained true. 

And, in some part of her, somewhere deep down, she prays for Krow—wanting for him to keep his promise.

_Edolesi_ , she thinks with sadness, _we…_

“Y/N?” 

Natasha’s voice makes her head perk up in alertness, seeing her with a cup of steaming tea.

“Cyreus says that his father and mother survived with your siblings…that they’re in some place called, _the Great Keep_. He also says that… _this_ will help you.”

Y/N nods faintly, breathing a sigh of relief as she takes the cup with trembling hands. The Great Keep was a resilient fortress of knowledge and armory—they would be exceptionally safe in that place. Her grey had taken flight a while ago, taking leave from warming her chilling bodice to seek out the tides. She could still see him from her window sill, flapping his leathery wings that sent whipping waves rippling against the sea. Truthfully, she was rather envious. Wings, a peculiar gift. Her fading eyes follow the pale green swirls of the tea, already swallowing the beverage eagerly, ignoring the scorch on her tongue.

“Thank you, Miss Romanoff,” Y/N lowers her head, hiding a meek smile, “I must be honest, it is brave of you to come and see me when I’m like this. It is even braver of you to see me after...doing something like _that_ to someone and still come to my aid.”

Something flashes across Natasha’s eyes, a glimmer that Y/N can’t particularly make out, but appreciates the gesture.

“Well, we’re both alike, you and I. I guess that makes me a _knight in shining armor_ in a place like this.” Natasha says with a knowing smile, taking a seat beside Y/N atop the large sill that overlooked the sea and quiet town below. 

Natasha Romanoff is nothing but eased in the presence of Y/N, despite witnessing quite the impressive brutality she inflicted upon the man that she seemed to vaguely recognize. She is reminded of the years back when before she joined the Avengers, before SHIELD, reminded of the turmoil she desperately tried to escape. Natasha glides her hand over Y/N’s finding her scars all too red and unsightly, but is careful with her touch.

“I think we can all help you, Y/N. This place is…strange but it seems like it needs guidance to ameliorate…even with _dumb and dumber_ over there roasting themselves by the fire.”

Y/N pulls back her aching shoulders, taking in a lighter visage as she sees Tony and Steve give their own reluctant yet sincere smiles. She manages to let loose a quiet laugh that comes fluttering from her stomach and through her chest—something pure and genuine, enough to bring light to the gloom.

“Even though this isn’t your fight?”

Tony comes to sit beside her, shaking his head with a sigh.

“Princess, we make it a habit to fight when we don’t need to. It’s kind of our thing. It’s our job.”

“Yes, I think we’re a lot more common than I thought.” Y/N hums. 

Steve pulls away from the fireplace and into the light of the other beings in the chamber, finding that not even the azure, textile drapes were giving enough brightness to help him see the differences of this world and his. The air on Amis was calmer, much more freeing. Steve could feel every inch of his lungs expand as he took in a firm breath, nothing but aiding him as his mind collects the grounds of the capital below—pathways, routes, and alleys; every means of escape and refuge that the city of Norrath could become. 

“So,” Natasha drawls, “What’s our plan?”

Y/N already knows what is going through Steve’s head, as she looks with him through their own window panels. She doesn’t see much behind the foggy glass, but the very few variants of movement, of people going from one place to the other; the bazaar, scarcely providing the city, wondering bitterly if the stands could become useful as an invasion against foreboding enemies. 

“If Gardenia has gotten this far with Krow on her side, she would do anything to finish what she started,” Y/N grimaces tightly, “She’d make me become the general again, as punishment for killing the king—which she would frame me for.”

Steve nods mindfully, beginning to think back to the palace grounds they had crashed and went through to escape. The gardens could be a prominent gateway to a surprise sweep, but he was left in the dark of just how alerted these Amisians could be.

“We don’t have Interpol and we need intelligence. Eyes and ears, everywhere.” Steve speaks, eyeing a peculiarly high hill near the end of the coast and outside the capital.

“If we don’t…and your queen has the right of means to hunt you down, while this region’s rulers and your siblings already know you’re here…”

“She could kill them on the spot if we leave the capital.” Y/N finishes, sighing into her hands.

She already knows of the numbers and great lengths the Atralis soldiers would go through to tread down the surrounding areas. Only a handful would be searching for them through the same way; the woods. Yet, there was a comfort in knowing that they would be preoccupied with finding the royal children.

“We need to get to them first.” Steve notes.

“We need a distraction,” Natasha claps her hands with a big nod to Y/N, relinquishing in her unbeaten huff of agreement, “Something big. Something spectacular. Stark?”

“Already on it!”

Y/N is surprised by how fast Tony gets to work; removing himself from the fire and tearing down the azure drapes from the windows, ripping them to tiny shreds and long pieces. His fingers work intricately, making do with what he had. He lays the pieces onto the floor, where Steve crouches down to do his part. Their teamwork is admirable, admittedly. The women watch as they frame the borders of their efforts, eyes ogling and coming to a profound revelation that make their mouths waver.

“It’s…the city.” Natasha points aloud.

“Yes,” Tony nods with a shrug, “Well…roughly. This map goes as far as where we came from, behind the wall of the woods, the sea, and the hill over there at the end of the coastline.”

Y/N eyes out the layout with some trying effort. She hadn’t been a frequent guest in the port city, somewhat frustrated over the foggier areas at the often unknown paths of the capital. Her head is taken forward to view the hillside, thinking back to its nature and history. From what she could remember, the peak is a gathering point for the wild orti. 

And what was built within the rock formations was the outfall of the Norrathian underground waterways.

“Alright…let’s get to work.”

  
  


『✭』

  
  


The sea is a vast and mysterious place, an unexplored valley of death, darkness, cold, and life. What wonders that were able to traverse the infinite deep were yet to show its face around Amisians, fearful of what they might find. Y/N dares not to become swallowed in it, straying from the idea of taking another step towards the edge of the cliff. The waves that collided with the jagged rocks at the bottom is the least of her worries, however. The group had come to the hill just outside the capital, where their first task awaited. They had settled on the crest of the hill, a large patch of snow and wind, with the breeze of the sea tickling the underside of their noses with a feeling of delight. 

The world of Amis was truly beautiful, the humans thought with a sense of bliss.

They were almost sad to see it destroyed.

Y/N had Grey Blood hovering just beside her, growling with cautiousness as his golden eyes were fixed upon a small parchment that was tied to his leg with a black, leather strap. She made sure to brand the wax seal with a thematic insignia; a meticulous star in the red. Grey Blood flew from her arm and scurried to the sky with his crack leather wings pointed towards the northern-west clouds, letting his resounding shrill song bring a faint blaze of hope to those who were fortunate to hear. 

“Fly above the clouds, Grey Blood. Gardenia’s scouts won’t catch you there.”

The dragon gives a chirrup of understanding, having Y/N usher her grey high and forward, smiling weakly as he takes towards the beyond with great speed, leaving but a whisper of a short prayer for the creature.

The first step was in motion.

“Are you sure he can understand…our language?”

Tony had watched from a small distance of the beast that left the area, following his trailing and winged shadow that passed over the great lengths of the White Hollow woods, along with the barren white mountains and hills until the clouds swallowed him. He wasn’t very feverish in the presence of the creature that had almost taken his hand off of his wrist, but was rather weary of his intelligence. 

He was not a raven, as what the god of thunder would sometimes say when there were means to get into contact with him, but Grey Blood appeared to hang in the balance of being much more and much less.

Tony could only trust the finality of Y/N’s smile, whose presence still could not be deemed as a threat or a passive being. Tony shuffled the metal of one of his repulsor engines he had in his hands, tough and smooth. At first, he thought of the nuke, but blinked away such horror as he had come to Steve’s side, delivering the piece.

Cyreus and Marinella had then come to help them with a few personally selected Norrathian soldiers, after debriefing their plans of an invasion. They worked valiantly throughout the daylight, carrying crate after crate of organic and earthly powders, barrels of ale, liquor, and beer, all highly flammable materials. Y/N had done her part and ushered tendrils of water to keep them together, making shifting opposable thumbs to tie the batches with lengths of thick rope. 

Steve Rogers watches with great interest as Y/N moves together with the sinuous bodies of liquid that warped up from the sea, entranced as the wielder and the power both share the same effort, impressed by her control over her abilities more so than her own self. He spared some form of pity to that, wondering just who she had beaten into when they were ambushed in the forest. Despite his nagging mind, he goes against his judgement and comes to her side.

Y/N greets the human with a nod, rubbing her hands together before slipping on a pair of leather gloves. She hasn’t forgotten her formality around anyone just yet, and Steve wonders why she would need to bother with guarding herself anyway. He wanted to ask, but Y/N sent him a small smile quicker.

“It’s a force of habit. Even before a fight,” She murmurs with raised brows, flexing her fingers through the tight material, “You think this’ll work?”

Steve gives a reluctant nod, thinking back to when he had seen a relay copy of the Stark Expo 2011 before he came out of the ice a few days later. He took to the study of his coworkers rather loosely, but seriously. After witnessing Stark’s beyond theatrical appearance on the big screen and the audience, Steve felt safe to say that their contraption would certainly turn some heads. After all, his eyes, to this day, were hurt at the sight of gold and red.

“I’m sure. Tony is one of the greatest minds of our generation on Earth.”

Y/N makes a huff of what Steve made out to be, a sign of breathlessness and disbelief. He thought little of it, deciding to change the subject, rather desperately.

“So, your siblings? How many? Do they all have the…same power as you do?”

“Six. Six, little mongrels. And, every day they get harder and harder to deal with,” Y/N replied simply, ignoring the small flash of surprise in the human’s eyes, “And, no. They all have their own respective abilities. Morok Conláed, second-born, is a literal hot-head. Flames and fire, that’s his thing,”

Steve nods with varying shrugs, considering that the idea of elemental siblings would be fitting in this planet’s case.

“Then there’s Cervantes Laurent, who controls winds, clouds, and the weather. Yven Vana’dey, Florentine Dhara, and Demetrius A’enea—triplets—able to move some part of the earth. And there’s Wisp, the youngest. He hasn’t done much training so we don’t exactly know what he does on his own, but he has just about the same power as everyone else on this planet.”

_“Everyone else?”_ Steve inquires with a raised brow, settling down on the slope of the hill, hands balling up snow.

“Everyone here is either the same or special, Steve Rogers. Surely, your people can relate?”

_The Avengers and the people of Earth_ , Steve thinks, _what makes them alike and different?_

The Initiative protects the people, of course, that’s what it was made to do after the invasion of other extraterrestrial beings. Asgardians were beginning to become the least of their worries, however, as there was a rumor in the air of Nick Fury beginning to take extra precaution measures. New projects, new guidelines. Steve grimaces and tugs at the collar of his suit.

“Got any favorites?”

Y/N blinks twice, her mouth shaping incoherent words that made Steve feel a crush of regret in his chest.

“I don’t…I don’t have favorites. I never had.”

“Sounds like a mother.” 

Natasha speaks up from her place from sitting in the snow, her legs dangle carelessly over the edge of the cliff that Y/N was afraid of being too close to. Her red hair is waving like the sea, a ripple of bright scarlet and deeper crimson, Y/N dares to be envious as her blood does not look the same. It tassels just above her shoulders as she comes to look at the half-blood, baring a kind yet small smile.

“Alright, Stark! Ready?”

The final touch was placed as the sun melted into the horizon; an unlit match at the top of the knot. All eyes become fixed on the tiny, sliver of black before turning to Tony, who marches forward in his iron-clad suit. Steve can barely stomach the sight as his repulsors sputter to life in a harsh, rippling whirr. Tony is propelled at a great height with delicate speed, coming close to the match that begins to steam from the proximity of his glowing palm that glows a striking white and blue. 

The match kindles a small flame, before the fire eats away at the threads of the thick rope, turning the small blaze into a growing and more vicious heat. Tony flips his limbs to behind him and rockets forward, giving the signal towards those below to begin moving farther away.

Y/N can smell the smoke and ash that begins to plume with the pale blue, orange, and pink sky. The sparks that chip from the wooden crates are like insignificant stars that only Y/N can appreciate, one after the other, thankful for their presence that comes fleetingly. She begins to trudge down the hill with the rest of the group, before Marinella Saeles comes striding to her side. 

“Princess Y/N!” The Norrathian princess’s greeting comes with her tiny hands curling around Y/N’s bicep.

_She was born small_ , Y/N remembers fondly, _but she has her mother’s most astounding beauty._

“Are you certain the Atralis soldiers won’t circle the central road towards the castle, Princess Y/N?” 

This was the first time Marinella had ever conversed with Princess Y/N, and she was quite over-the-moon. She was disregarding their unfortunately grim circumstances, instead turning a listening ear to the woman who was an expert in military prowess. Tales of Y/N’s strategic values during pacifistic conquests weren’t so easily inked on the pages of her books, ultimately having the young Norrathian only trust in her word that their home would be safe.

“Gardenia can’t just take Norrath or Amis, she’ll need to get to me first. If we can turn the field against them, they’ll be nothing for us to worry about other than making sure they stay under it,” Y/N does her best to show a sincerely bright smile towards the fellow girl, “The Norrathians will be safe. They are your people just as much as they are mine. The only difference is; I was never one to follow the rules.”

Y/N guides Marinella back to her brother’s side at the beginning of the slope, exchanging a few other concerns and graceful smiles, before being left in their own, tense companies. The half-blood doesn’t want to think of what could become of the sweet youngling should Y/N lose their only advantage. She prays for every one of the Amisians’ well-beings, hoping to the ends of the world for the girl not to become like Amara Qhyros.

The smoke is beginning to reach the canopy of clouds, now. The Amisians and humans alike are all standing before the thick black with awe and a sense of worry. Most are already gathered in their stations, while others have turned their heads midway working in the cliffs. The city has been completely deserted, leaving the vendors, shops, homes, complexes all but abandoned, while the people stayed watchful within the walls of the Norrathian castles. 

Finally, after the silence had taken a full hour, someone in the White Hollow had finally been shot with an arrow, wielding steel-white armor and a sword.

Steve tightens the strap of his vibranium shield to his arm, rolling his shoulders that crack.

“Here they come.”

The second act was in motion.

『✭』

Y/N remembered the day she stepped down as the Atralis general, as it had become just another way of saying ‘conqueror’. Life turned tender and sorrowful, bleak and misguided as the young princess had left the ranks and had come to join the sides of her family. She didn’t seem to have time for them when they were infants and children, unlike now as they were strapping lads and juveniles. The triplets were starting to take after her, being more bold and rebellious, as she was. Though, Y/N reminded them on a daily basis to never, ever become like the way she was. 

There were hardly any regrets or past concerns that kept her from joining back into the forces. She had dropped almost everything completely, carrying with her heavy, emotional baggage. Y/N didn’t listen nor wonder about the whereabouts of her lieutenants, commanders, or the opinions of her juniors. The battalion had whoever they could salvage, so long as the position of general would never be taken—or Y/N would shut down the armies herself.

Their harsh, white plated armor and pristine weapons came shining and rushing through the lines of trees. Anything that Y/N could imagine was there, charging right there, before their very eyes. The Norrathians were beginning to move into their first formations; a long horizontal line that stretched from the start of the hill to the entrance of the gate of Norrath. Their shields, round and thick of venlis wood, lowered to the ground, already holding against swords that stabbed and scraped their surfaces. 

Tony was the only force with an aerial advantage, already commencing a spiral dive towards the trees and to the ground, repulsor beams spate towards the opposing soldiers. Some dropped like flies, armor melted in circular shapes, burnt into flesh and chainmail. Y/N was impressed, ushering the other humans towards the rear end of the line, the entire mass taking the shape of a crescent moon.

Steve’s eyes were on the city, beginning to break into a sprint towards the behinds of the Norrathians, leaping over their entirety to take the fight head-on. Y/N was perplexed with the lack of hesitance in the soldier, even more so with his ability to sweep them from under and over their legs, using his shield both offensively and defensively, watching as it ricochets fluidly against a number of trees. His hands and eyes act as one, catching the shield when it is near, only for it to throw it back when he catches another soldier in his sight. 

His fist came together with the end of a long, muscled arm. The flesh under was tough, he could tell, tougher than a human. For some moments in time, he couldn’t remember when he was fighting the Chitauri, he couldn’t remember what they felt like, how skilled they were, minus their technology. The only advantage that he had here was his shield. The metal came jabbing into the rib of his opponent, hearing the sputtering coughs before a guttural scream as Steve caught the arm and twisted it, shoving him into the dirt. 

Skin turned a grotesque purple, the ends of the bloom were yellow, and the middle was a deep red. Steve pushed himself to think nothing of it, deciding to tread onto the next man, spinning with his jog, his kick landing on two soldiers who were unfortunate enough to be in front of and behind each other. Natasha finished the job, sweeping herself under Steve’s form to roll and grip them with the Widow’s Bite. Blue and white crackled with immense heat and they both fell, though, Natasha didn’t find it difficult to turn away.

Y/N had taken herself at the end of the hill, commanding the troops to shuffle themselves away from the beacon and towards the city. Her hands came writhing towards the sky, the air itself shivering with the snow under the battalion's feet. Moisture and liquid came together, but not the sea, no, not yet. It came in slithering forms, massive and dual, jagged like swords that the princess wielded with ease. She was swift in the wind, cutting down those in white and left them in red. Y/N only needed to wipe away what was left with her thumb.

Her hands twisted again, changing forms, motioning the formation to curve at one end and break away to fight head on. There, the first Norrathians were beginning to drop. They weren’t as equipped nor skilled as the Atralis army, but they managed enough as they were beginning to get closer and closer to the entrance of the port city. Y/N counted her blessings, she counted her losses, muttering prayers and words of guidance to herself as she took the lives of Amisians.

_Gardenia brought this,_ Y/N could only think, _Krow brought this. Destruction and terror, they brought this upon themselves._

Natasha came running by Y/N, with Tony flying above them, and leaving Steve to protect the curving lines. The women could both easily flash each other a weary smile, already betting on their limits.

“What if this doesn’t work?” Natasha asks as they run through the capital gates.

“What?” Y/N raised her brows, giving an unperturbed smirk, “Afraid of getting wet?”

Natasha only shook her head with a curled lip, breaking further away from Y/N to get into the next position. 

_“I am!”_ Tony whined through his suit, boosting the speed in his thrusters to enter the central road.

She leapt on the steps of one of the two marble fountains, watching the first line of both Norrathian and Atralis knights fight their way through the capital. Y/N had come to the other, her hands rising high above her head as well as the water from the fountains within it. 

They curved and cracked against the air, fluid and sparkling as it was incredibly lethal. The end of the torrents had slashed and sheared the armor of soldiers, snapping repeatedly to separate the opposing forces that had begun to enclose the Atralis soldiers into the city. Y/N had been the fortune of the field, thankful for the abundance of water that did well in her control.

Steve was left at the end of the mass, throwing his shield against the stone gated pillar of the capital. The metal was successful in embedding itself into the stone, firm and awaiting as Steve stormed through a gathering of Atralis soldiers, taking his form that came shoving into their backs, knees first. Steve leapt from the fallen men, gripping and clutching the pillar with his nails and scuffs of his boots. With one large, valiant use of his strength, Steve swung himself around the base of the pillar, his arm and elbow catching the rim of his shield before he was even seen by Y/N and Natasha—seeing a man dangling above the battle.

“Y/N! Do it! Now!”

Natasha reloaded the clips of her Bite, the used takers falling to her feet before she fired the two, new rounds. The electricity carried itself with the black metal, firing into the mass of water that came rushing forward in its entirety. Finally, white snapped within the clear, sweeping forward, engulfing and electrocuting the rushing lines of Atralis men that were left astray by the Norrathian soldiers, turning their heads to the human who leapt from the fountain steps.

“Fourth phase!” Natasha yelled, motioning her hand towards the rim of the surrounding, city walls, “Come on! Fourth phase!”

“Go!” Y/N encouraged, leaping from the fountains, watching as Steve ripped his shield from the stone, falling to the ground. 

The Norrathians, what was left of them, had followed the road along the city walls. Y/N had counted the estimate, already grim as she had lost a great fifty. She took her attention towards the running form of Steve who had come to her side, flushed and panting, Y/N had only spared a firm hand on his shoulder, bringing the sweat from his brow.

“You know,” Steve began raggedly, his head going between his knees, “I’m starting to see…what your mother…says about you,” He coughs dryly, flashing a mirthless smile, “Wild. Even beyond my limits.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, shoving her hand against his shoulders.

“Hey, whose side are you on?”

The bastard doesn’t hold up the lighter part of the atmosphere, not as the Atralis soldiers begin to rise to their feet, not as the sun has finally set, and not when Gardenia strides through the gates of Norrath.

Fourth phase… _here we go._

  
  


『✭』

  
  


Krow Vulnir was not at all a simple man, but an irregular Amisian who had been in the Skaraeith children’s life since each of their own birth’s. He was renowned as Y/N’s closest friend, a formidable ally, a man of charisma and charity, a true chivalrous individual who won the respect of their father. The two, pure-blooded, eldest children, Morok and Cervantes, however, questioned the true integrity of Krow. At first, when they were both children, young and maniacal, the friend was seen as the enemy—they were satisfied to know that at last, after reliving that deep pit of nostalgia, that they were right. 

Morok took to being the future king and appointed ruler quite well. He worked through the waves of chaos as he led the nobility towards the labyrinth of the palace. They felt the rumble of the marble and stone from the ceiling, an echoing resonation that struck the worst in the younger siblings that cowered to their elder brother. Morok used his abilities, being the torch that guided the refugees to the Great Keep.

It was an old, archaic structure, housing acres of weaponry and knowledge of the many planets, realms, galaxies, and their own history. The house of such things rested between Terius and Irie. Swords, staffs, magical items, and mystifying secrets of the arts were lost in the many shelves of the fortress, leaving nothing but a dusty hold that did well to maintain the people who were only now beginning to gain the bravery of stepping outside.

They took a break from their whispering, their gossiping about what transpired within the palace, the main cause of the chaos; Y/N, it seemed to be. They heard it, they all did; of Y/N murdering Amara and Nadia Qhyros, leaving Aruul to become the driving factor to turn against the Echealion. They called her the Wild Star, Conqueror, and other unforgivable things.

But, what struck Morok with such horror and unbridled fury was the whisper of the name, _Eidolon_.

_That_ …that had made the flaming prince command a legion of Amisians to prepare to tread the outside of the fortress, hours away from embarking their own journey back to the Echealion, where Morok had hoped to confront their mother, even more so, his half-sister.

 _One of the many cons of being related to a bastard_ , Morok thinks bitterly.

“She must have been lying,” Cervantes muttered aimlessly with his head in his hands, pacing back-and-forth since the dawn, “Aruul has always been a calloused man, some said he was corrupt. There is no way that our sister would ever Amara and Nadia Qhyros.”

_“Half-sister,”_ The triplets correct without any ill tone, “And we don’t know that for sure. Y/N is much older than any of us and she’s been through a lot.”

“But killing one of our own!?” Cervantes exclaims through his teeth, paying no further thought of the families and nobles that slept on the lower floors below.

It had been like this since they had first entered the Great Keep. After bringing nearly everyone back to their senses, Morok had witnessed the first falling out between his siblings, despite the one who caused it all not being there. Y/N’s name had been spoken at least ten times an hour, and they were approaching the nightfall. His siblings weren’t making the use of it any better, as they were relentlessly arguing over a past that they didn’t know about.

“Y/N has been through many wars, brother. Some say that even during the Greatest Doom, there were Amisians who fought against the kingdom. We can’t be so quick as to overrule all possibilities.”

Yven was the only one who seemed thoroughly convinced of Morok’s theory. There have been many expansions of Amisians before their time, despite being the second generation of Skaraeith children. Though, none of them did get very far, as history tells. However, Demetrius shook her head—thick-hided as she always was, folding her arms tightly under her toned arms to convey her doubt. She had the harsher features of Y/N’s look, but took it as her own natural beauty. Her own blood ran steaming as she even considered the slightest chance of Y/N betraying their people.

“Y/N has half of a good and half of a bad reputation for a reason, maybe this is why. Let’s face it; whenever Y/N gets riled up about something, there is always a conflict between her and the higher-ups. Maybe this time, she’s the one who took it too far. Maybe she really did kill Amara and Nadia without any semblance of mercy.”

Cervantes became swallowed by a heavy air of anger. The mere thought consumed him with denial that his dear sister would have innocent blood on her hands, staining their name. The events were peeling behind his eyelids with harsh light, reminded of the way Aruul broke down in fury against Y/N, who was just barely ashamed enough to keep her head down. Cervantes stomped his way to Demetrius, bearing his teeth as if he was a half-blooded and furious beast himself.

“Do you really think we could ever become heartless killers?”

Demetrius stepped closer, not batting an eyelash.

“I’m saying that we’ve never had to feign innocence before.” 

_“Enough already!”_

Wisp’s voice was hoarse and dry, coming from dried lips that haven’t wanted to touch a morsel of water for a few days. The youngest of the Skaraeith children, despite his age was all the wiser, already breaking up a fight between his two older siblings who stepped away from each other briskly, coming to comfort him instead. Yven was the first to scoop him up in her arms, being the second soul with a passive flit. Morok removed himself from between his brother and sister, draping an arm over Wisp and tried his best to curl his emotions to his favor.

“Forgive us, little brother,” Morok sends a sharp glance towards his siblings, “The tension in these recent days are getting to us. Don’t fret. Soon, we’ll all go home and everything will go back to normal.”

Wisp turns his face away, tightening the bundles of his fists into his sleeves, pinching and digging into his shoulders as he tries to listen and understand his siblings. But it turns harsher, harder to listen to their arguing echoes, their murmurs of despair. Wisp tries to act like he can understand the adult things, things that he had his fair share of seeing, but can’t escape from the fact that he is but a child; his reactions were limited, every word counts—he doesn’t know anything about his family. 

“The normal that pretends like nothing ever happened? That we didn’t kill our own?”

A rush of color floods their pale faces. They turn their own white, dark and sulking, bitter green, and vicious reds. He doesn’t want to upset them, no, that’s the last thing he wants. The only thing that he could understand was for the six of them to be closer than ever—to fight through the lies and confront the truth. The youngest Skaraeith thinks of his unborn sibling, Raimyr. 

An untold and unfathomable voice inside wishes for Raimyr to either be born quickly, or not at all.

“I’m sorry.”

Wisp doesn’t know if he unknowingly blurted his apology to Raimyr or his siblings.

He cages himself with his own arms, yet falls easily into the embrace of his brothers and sisters that come so sweetly and hastily. Their ragged heartbeats and relentless heat was all he could feel, not their worry or their desperate clutches. He fights to sob, resilient to what thought of the family he has left. 

Gardenia wasn’t his mother, she never was. Not to Wisp, his siblings, or to Y/N—Wisp holds whoever is left.

They yield, suddenly, to the sight of the skylight of the Great Keep; a profound rotunda of stained glass, protecting the veil of white and ashen grey that becomes darker with a new, brimming shadow. The children and the people below look to this new hope, listening to its shrill song.

  
  


『✭』

  
  


Y/N Skaraeith doesn’t know anything about Gardenia, frankly. She doesn’t know of her lineage, her history, or if she even had any remaining family left. For all she could fathom, Gardenia might have been a harlot her father picked up off of the street out of pity and took her into his life of refined luxury. A fairy-tale spun romance that blossomed into a repulsive, sick fantasy—a dream that decayed into reality, child after child. She couldn’t stomach any of it as the years progressed, as it got much worse with every season. The only strength that she could lap from her wounds was for the survival of her siblings. If she had given up, Gardenia would’ve wound up with her own children dead or sickly.

Y/N refuses to weep. 

Not now, not when Gardenia was right in front of her, staring her down with that sickening, white eyes of her’s. 

Any and all possible outcomes were stretching out like a loose thread, hung and dripping red with blood on either side. The only thought that Y/N had trained in her mind was to keep the humans, the mortals, safe—after all, they were only on recon and they had an initiative to get back to, families. Y/N refuses for Gardenia to even see them. She feared they might be captured during this escapade, turned into pieces of leverage or worse, executed as examples of Amisians who would choose to follow a traitorous bastard’s cause. Although, it had already become a lost cause, as the woman drinks in the visage of Steve Rogers.

Gardenia almost purrs.

“ _Terrans_ ,” Gardenia claps slowly, “You were always one to pick up the lowest and the outcasts.”

Y/N keeps her distance, thankful that Steve did the same. Her eyes follow the remnants of the first battalion and immediately releases a vulgar snort. She had seen better faces and sturdier bones in a medical tent. 

“It’s not like you picked any better. Not on your side. Not when they’re against me.”

“Which is why we need you, Y/N. This could all end with a single word. A single _‘yes’_. That’s all it will take.”

“And if I refuse?”

Gardenia lets her smile and hand guide Y/N to her answer. Above her fingers is the Atralis army. Though they don’t mean anything to Y/N, they mean everything to the foundations of the planet Amis. The Norrathians, Elysian, Teriun, or Irieth armies are not enough to form a revolution and survive—everyone would be caught in the middle, everyone would die for nothing.

However, Y/N only blinks at the thought, folding her arms together.

“You’ve brought the wrong shoes if you came to fight.”

That wit again, Gardenia snarls. Her hands flash with an impure light, white and blinding, taking form to lower and press its sharp, pointed tip at Y/N’s neck. 

“I’ve brought these heels to step on some throats. But, I’m going to do so much more to you and your pathetic parade if you don’t surrender now.”

Steve is almost fearful of the Amisian who takes another step further, biting at his lip as he sees a stray, rolling ruby, trickling down Y/N’s neck and down to the collar of her scattered gown. Y/N only glares, her teeth gritting and grinding against the sides of her jaw, tightening with profound words she wishes to spit. She chooses a smile, a smile that brings Gardenia another rush of rage.

“A mere blade won’t make me bow down to you. You know that.”

Steve releases an unintended breath of relief as Gardenia snags away the white knife from Y/N’s neck, ripping some flesh, pouring some red but is left in the snow. Her steps are sauntering, slow and casual, as if she had seen this all before.

“You really are your father’s daughter,”

Y/N doesn’t move.

“The only daughter that I didn’t have.”

Steve blinks with uncertainty, reeling with this newfound information—the revelation that almost brings him breathing words of sympathy.

Gardenia comes to face Y/N again now, solemn and bold, her true face, as ugly as it was. To him, she looks anything but. The crown perched on her head is crooked, her neck coming to its leaning posture. Her hair is wavered golden but is unlike the modern models that he frequently sees on the billboards of New York, she’s not a face of certain interest that has a glare biting at his skin. She is a beauty of dark intent, Steve can see it thoroughly. Her smile is unsteady and rehearsed, a feat that is nowhere near as natural and sincere as Y/N’s. 

“This army is the only remaining thing that is yours by birthright. You’ve revoked your claim to the throne, your ranks and privileges…” Gardenia folds her hand over the other, smiling wistfully, “Having this army, having you return to your forgotten conquests…It’s what your father would’ve wanted.”

Steve Rogers stumbles away out of instinct as Y/N comes stomping her way up to the queen. Y/N is fierce, a brute of profound proportions, a fraction holding in her glare that she uses against Gardenia. Her psyche is raging of heated rage, a flush coming to the acres of skin that she turns away. Her hand flares, pulses and becomes in control. She wants nothing but melted, wet flesh slipping through her fingers, but tucks them in a pale fist. 

She strikes Gardenia, sending her down to the floor.

Steve has to yank her away as the sound of men come rushing through the capital.

“The bazaars!” Natasha screams to Steve as he drags Y/N away by the waist, “Lead them in the bazaars!”

Her body is giving off an unbearable amount of strength. Her heels flail back and forth, hitting against his kneecaps and calves, some even jabbing in his stomach. Her arms are not any weaker, grasping, clutching, and prying itself away from Steve’s hold. His eyes are taken with both her back and the shining armors of men who charge at them with capable speeds. White and black mix horrifically, having Steve turn and sprint towards the central road back to the palace.

Fifty men proceed on their trail, while the other half are stopped by Tony’s forces. He is the only aerial support on the field now, as there was no Grey Blood, no dragons, or any other mythical creature that he encountered at least twice today. His repulsor beams take the lives of a dozen, while the Atralis knights he faces change tactics and launch their spears his way in frightening flurries.

“Let me go!” Y/N shouts to Rogers, who is still holding her by the waist.

For a human, he was remarkably strong. He carried her all the way through the length of the central road, bolting past the stands, shops, complexes, and flickering pale lights. He barely made a decent curve in his path as he came to the gates of the Saeles castle, listening to the rustling commotion of the Norrathian folk locked in those towers.

Shadows were circling the alleyways, homes, and walls. There was no light beyond the walls of Norrath, and the port city had entered a darker light. The sunset glistens for one final time, before the era of dusk settles. The snow fell in harsher speeds, the last of the heat was wafted away in the dark clouds that turned heavy and moist. Norrath turned into a muttering battlefield, shouting commands from one end to the other—where Steve listened aimlessly to Y/N as she broke in his arms.

Steve didn’t listen to Y/N as she finally pried herself from him, settling onto the edge of the moat that was collecting smoke and snow, swinging her arms down, tightening her fist against his leg. She was silent but panting, breathing as hard as he was, exhausted in two very different ways. Steve had avoided his fatigue, only waving his hand in the air, towards the western walls, to Natasha who did the same to the forces surrounding the bazaar that was filled with men. 

Y/N briskly rolled onto her back as the first few men were charging and attacking. She was fighting the weight of a man who tried stabbing her in the teeth, while Steve engaged in multiple fist fights against a volley of soldiers who wielded swords and daggers. The shadows were closing in on them, circling and stirring. And, finally, Tony fired a light into the air for all to see.

_“Natasha! Do it!”_

The city fell forward, the circle of buildings falling in the middle of the central road where the Atralis soldiers were trapped underneath. They were buried in the rubble, concrete, azure foundations and amber pillars. The bazaar’s stands fell forward on each side of the road, clashing together and falling on top of the swarming road of troops that were left to cry out in the smoky, deaf air. Y/N shut her eyes, closed her mouth, and shot her limbs forward—throwing the man away and leaving him to be crushed to death by a falling building.

Steve broke free from the forces in front of him, and shoved the remaining behind him into the freezing moat below. He gathered Y/N from the ground, plucking her and captured her head in his hands. He felt both heat and cold spill over his gloved palms, she was frightfully weak. She maintained what she could of her breaths, using her focus to trap the soldiers who fell into the water underneath and collect them.

“Are we alright?” Y/N heard Steve’s voice echo.

She couldn’t answer, something prevented her from forming anything with her mind and mouth.

Something was happening.

Y/N coughed, eyes bleary and filled with blinding white, blinking away what tears she had left.

What was happening?

Why isn’t it over yet?

_Where is Gardenia?_

Steve sees something bright. It wasn’t the sun that melted away its last glow of gold, nor the flickering torches that the destroyed city swallowed in fire, but something foul that irked his eyes sorely. The gods of this land served a cruel injustice as he wiped away the burning stains, swaying his head away from the glares and saw what he could, his head swimming with prayers as he saw Y/N.

The queen, he sees, the queen has stabbed Y/N through the chest.

She travels with the last of the light, using it as her own and bending it into something much more crueler than a sword. Her hands are wrapped around the cutlass of white, her fingers gliding along the blade and wrapping around what was left of what Y/N could feel. Her nerves were succumbing to the shock, while her lungs caved in the deepest parts of her innards and refused her of any relief. She looked to Steve, and then saw the ground of which she collapsed on.


	14. Iridescence 「14」

## 𝐌𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫

Y/N has never stood on the battlefield alone. Her army was on either side of her, and the enemies in front. The ghosts of allies that had been with her through thick and thin were swarming before her eyes, following the motions of her hand that kept them at bay. She commanded armies, legions, revolutions in her family’s name. She’s taken hundreds of planets under Skaraeith's rule, even before she managed to snag the title of General. She had ripped the garden of seeds that many families plant their legacies in, and sowed her very own—most of which she could not reap.

_Anath Skaraeith_ , the primordial progenitor of Amisians and the Skaraeiths was there for her birth. He was a man who was unlike his son, Amwren Ramses Skaraeith, he was unlike his wife, _Wrentoria Skaraeith_ —sworn to the service of justice, dispassionate—but a refined man of elegantly brutal tastes. When Y/N met her grandfather for the first time, Anath vowed to have his first grandchild protected, creating an ancient order that his world abided by, and she did, too. It was her choice and only hers, should she choose to leave her lineage and join the terrifying darkness and brilliance of the void.

She chose her family. She _always_ chose her family. There was nothing left for her but them, as she nurtured and taught those who were eager and accepting to know her. Y/N was unlike her grandfather, sharing kindness and care to those who meant both so little and so much to her. Her siblings were one of them.

And thus, Y/N had loved them instead of her own life.

Including her father.

But, Gardenia E’rya meant nothing to her. 

Y/N saw nothing but red and flickering, black blotches before her eyes. She felt the cutlass of light being pushed deeper in a slippery and slow motion as she rolled and fell onto her back. The ripping flesh that tore into her scapula and out of her heart turned into a shrill, flaming pit that made her incapable of breathing even the least bit steadily, the light of her step-mother’s power was burning what struggling nerves she had left. A plethora of silent anguish was enough for Y/N as she attempted to pause her clogged breathing, only for a moment.

_She blocked the aortic arch_ , Y/N thought painfully, _she completely skewered my heart like a damn kabob!_

Everything was obscured, fading in stains of black, with the sky above Norrath beginning to pour a hellish hailstorm. Crystal droplets could no longer sprinkle life into her, as it was so easily slipping from her lungs. She couldn’t feel the cool relief of the mourning rain nor the whimsical gust of a howling wind. It was as if, for the first time in her life, Y/N felt numb and helpless, being swallowed by a force she knows nothing of—hesitant of kindling that fighting spirit. She can only see Steve, horrified and leaning to her, hands clamoring all around her.

She can see him cup her face, hands wet with water and blood, but she can’t feel any of it, to react and console his worries. He was screaming something, yelling at her, before he formed something with his mouth—a vile phrase, pulling her over his shoulders and dragging Y/N and himself away from Gardenia, while a few broken men came charging. Her hands gathered another wave of the sickening pure light. Like lightning, it came striking through the air, slicing the ends of Steve’s hair and loose ends of his tactical suit, while the ends of his shield deflected the rest.

Like a slain kill, he carried her. However, he didn’t dare remove the light embedded in her chest, instead, letting it create a painful blockage of blood that Y/N could barely manage to keep from spilling. Her vitakinesis was working absentmindedly, shaping into malformed clumps of blood tissue and spinel threads that barely kept together, hardly keeping its color of red and pink. Steve held an oozing wound, as Gardenia managed to rip into his ribs, shouting something to the sky, where Tony heeded the unheard call.

Something happened. 

His suit came swerving to the right, diving low where his flight aided in his tactical plan. Tony’s red and gold haunted Y/N through bleary eyes, but she hoped for the best. Incineration was an understatement to describe what exploded before Y/N’s eyes, but akin to a nuclear explosion—Tony’s suit obliterated whatever was left of the ruined central capital. The main road was no longer just rubble, but piles of ash, dust, and the blackened bones of her people. 

Y/N closed her eyes, and suddenly saw a princely face.

Y/N was taken by Cyreus, who had come out with his own lance that glowed a prominent and promising blue. Her eyes flitted for a second with red, blue, and white—harsh and circular, blinding and tormenting—Steve’s shield was hit with another one of Gardenia’s fluxes, and suddenly, Cyreus cried out as something lodged into his shoulder, missing Y/N’s hip as she dangled. She didn’t hear his cry of pain but she could certainly feel the intensity, the way his chest shifted and tightened under her upper thigh. She let the motions carry her, succumbing to the waves of movements as she was brought to another place, somewhere that served some semblance of safety and hope; a crumbled alley.

Her hands flew to her chest, trembling fingers curling around a splintering and blinding force, sighing and crying as she twisted the crackling, white blade. Pain came out in a rippling scream, though Y/N refused to stop. She saw Cyreus kneel down to her side, hunched and gripping into the arrow in his shoulder, oozing a grotesque flow of black and red. She didn’t want to see, she didn’t want to look at him—but knowing she was the cause of this, knowing that she came up with the plan, she had to stand up.

  
  


_Stop it_ , she heard him say, _that’s enough!_

_You’re going to die!_

  
  


And then, for a moment; that seemed to ease her at peace.

  
  


_Why can’t I?_

  
  


Something moved in her.

_Y/N!_

_Why am I still here?_

Something was there.

_Why am I alive?_

This thing…

_Why am I still breathing?_

Deep, deep down inside…

  
  


_Y/N!_

Question after question, discouragement after discouragement, cry after cry, pain after pain…nothing could ever soothe Y/N. Nothing could ever appease her sins, committed by what was once a naive and ignorant little child. A child who has no mother and no father, no past and no future, with an unworldly strength clutched in her fist—surrounded by millions. The very thought of redemption, giving peace to the families that she destroyed was a yearning and empty plea, a mirage that could convince her that she didn’t need to hold it as tight.

Y/N closed her eyes, taking hold of a mass that moved with her breathing. A horrific being that called to her, sung to her, and whispered promises of value and home—as sharp as Gardenia’s sword, as dark as Ramses wrath, she held whatever she could. Black figments came to her eyes in great numbers, taking over what was left of Norrath, of her world. The light turned dark, the dark turned bright, and Y/N had no choice but to look.

She said a name, of whom she doesn’t know anymore.

_Why?_

_Why_ couldn’t she have been born in a normal family? A father, a mother, their first child—not a bastard of tainted, royal blood—a regular girl in the tranquil world with no one around but just them. Whatever it was, whatever she held, promised her all that and more. Y/N stifled her breathing in the air that stilled all around her, halting to the wind, the cold, and the flames. Blood came to her in a quick rush, colors of stars and ethereally beauty laid bare before her weakened form.

_It’s just a wound, it’s just a wound,_ she kept repeating.

Slowly but surely, as repressed memories of more horrendous wounds began to simmer in familiar spots of her body, the sword of light began oozing and dripping red, coaxed with a gritting whimper of anguish. 

_Wound…_ she kept thinking, _it’s only…a…wound…_

More than mere memories clouded her eyes, however, images and emotions of more recent times began to assert judgement. The Amisian thwarts with this inner self, trying to push through the rubble of her forgotten and red-soaked life—eyes locked onto the stars, the moon, and the sun that fade together, melting their light onto the smoking grounds of her home.

_I can be better_ , she promises herself, _I know I can be._

_I know we can be._

And, with one swift tug, Y/N tore out the light and poured out the darkness from her heart. 

Cyreus was sent rolling and skidding across the ashen pavement, tumbling into the next crumbling complex and further away from the woman he was tasked to protect. His shoulder was painful, but not as burning as what blinded him with a mere reflective ray of light, shielding himself from this harsh force and narrowly peering into what could just be their saving grace. He saw movement, but too much of it, questioning if something had fired and combusted into the field just next to him. 

Though, it did not explain the essence of ataraxia, its voice that was calling out to him. 

The Norrathian prince opened his eyes, for one final time, through disheartened pain—to see Y/N—rising and blazing, with the wrath of the last storm.

  
  


『✭』

  
  


The children heard the dragon’s song during the first hour of morning. 

Grey Blood was named for Y/N’s most unspeakable appetites, a thematic affiliation that had come to her mind in one fell swoop, after facing what she tried so hard to run away from, all for the sake of saving her siblings. The beast was her purest form, in a way, he looked after his younger kin; the smaller dragons from others and themselves. Grey Blood was a big beast for his age, and it was no shocking surprise that he was there to protect his companion’s siblings as well. Flying to the Great Keep through the skylight and to their rescue, singing a song of safety and home.

“What is Grey Blood doing here!?” Yven cried with tears, beaming hopefully as she examined the beast of any injury.

“He’s exhausted,” Florentine murmured, stroking his frills, “And alone.”

His wings came first to wrap around his kin, circling towards the smaller beasts and listened contently to their chirrups and thrummed silently to the commotion of the Skaraeith children running across the various platforms. The fortress was then rumbling with hopeful murmurs, a sea of worry and potential assurances of safety. Wisp almost had to drag Morok and the others to get them out of their stupor of grief and loneliness when he first heard him, polishing off of what was left of their rations, where he was fearful of the outside as they would soon need to hunt in the wilderness.

Instead, the children came to the beasts with tears in their eyes, sighing with relief and somehow happy with what came, after how many nights of anxious silence and discontent arguments. Morok let Grey Blood perch atop his shoulder, where he took notice of the leather strap and the parchment that clung to the beast’s leg.

“What is this?” Morok frowned, revealing it to the others, they drank in what they could of Y/N’s handwriting—instructions of how to get back to the palace safely and how to escort their people to the closest refuge.

And immediately, the siblings were taking sides.

“This…has to be a joke.” Demetrius spoke first as she grabbed the letter, her eyes adrift back to Morok, who did not seem so convinced either.

“This is the best chance we have of getting these people to safety, Demetrius,” Cervantes argued, throwing a look to Wisp and Florentine, who nodded their heads in agreement, “If this is what Y/N is commanding us to do—“

“—What makes you think her ‘ _commands_ ’ are the best option, Cervantes?” Demetrius asked bitingly, “Y/N’s ‘ _commands_ ’ are what got us here in the first place. She was general during the Greatest Doom, right? Which is why Aruul was so hell-bent on getting his revenge after Y/N ‘ _killed his daughter and butchered his wife_ ’!”

“Y/N had the time and the pain to learn from that! Don’t talk like you were actually there in the first place! None of us were! We don’t know what _actually_ happened!” 

_Why was she so secretive?_ Demetrius wanted to ask once, _what could possibly be the reason why Y/N refuses to say anything about the past? How much pain could a hundred-million years cause? Was there just not enough time to grieve for those sins?_

No one, in truth, knew anything about Y/N. Despite being there for them every day, walking by their side since they were born, Y/N was continuously a raveled enigma. Nothing could be solved because she insisted there was nothing to solve. Not even their father could be coerced into appeasing their curiosity, while their mother stubbornly kept herself from knowing anything. And now, many eons later, the Skaraieth children were only now beginning to peel back the layers of that same fortress of mistrust, piercing the veil of what their sister could be and what she wasn’t. 

Morok had enough, flames rocketing from the ends of his hair, his hands clutched and digging into the skin of his flushed face. His rampant body was made of flesh and fire, boiling blood seeping and raging through his skin in rapid rushes, like a volcano on the brink of eruption. The debate was going farther and deeper, and more unnecessary than it needed to be. 

He unraveled his hands to lash out a fiery hued flux. Whips of lightning almost, came to smack against the ground with a destructive and burning collision. The laced fire dispelled and was followed by astonished eyes, paralyzed with an unnatural fear over their sibling who promptly snatched the parchment from Demetrius.

And, after a beat of silence, Morok burned the parchment.

_“Brother!”_

Wisp’s outspoken cry was silenced by his fiercest glare.

Morok was as stubborn as he was protective, fiery as he was caring. He took his chances where he was needed most, and was doubtful of taking them now, all of a sudden. Though the words of his eldest half-sister seemed promising, there was that lurking feeling again—that strange sense of harrowing danger that from what he heard from history, of their people, that Y/N is, in fact, a danger to them all.

Morok, however, was certain that Y/N was not as chaotic as she seemed to be; she wasn’t someone as monstrous as the Eidolon. 

She _wasn’t_ there. 

Morok’s stubborn doubt did its best to cloud his judgement, but dwelled on it further as he looked at Wisp. His youngest brother just be saved from this, he reminded himself, they must figure out a new method. And, Morok was certain he couldn’t trust his mother’s methods either. What mattered now were their own.

“We’re not going to follow Y/N’s plan, and we’re not giving mother what she wants.”

Instantly, Demetrius bit at his words.

“What are you saying? Are we just gonna wait here until this whole thing blows over? Until either Y/N’s head or our mother’s comes rolling down the hill?”

“We’re not staying down here like helpless children, and we’re not heading straight into danger in the Echealion or Norrath. We’re going to the White Hollow woods, and hopefully make refuge there.”

The Skaraieth children’s plan seemed easy as they mapped the area behind their eyelids. The forest that protected the Great Keep was thick and tall, mounted on one of the greatest walls of protection with the advantage of the winds blowing from Terius, where Cervantes was determined to take and fight with. The Nanrane rivers that were just outside of the western entrance of the woods would be the only treacherous point for the moving team, though, Morok had appeased them as he had caught the sight of winged beasts adrift in the rafters. 

“Cervantes, Demetrius, and I will be fighting and distracting the troops that mother had sent out from the south, while you three lead the people to the forest from the northeast. You’ll need to find a way of how to cross the rivers without being seen.”

“We don’t need to _cross_ the rivers, brother,” Yven chimed with a thrumming grin, “We need to _float_ through them. The rivers that Y/N, Demetrius, Florentine, and I made will take us easily inside the woods from the current.”

The siblings had all been appeased to the notion, as Wisp crossed his arms with a wicked expression, smug towards the sky as he gave himself a proud chuckle.

“See? Meister Mavenpoor was wrong about getting rid of the rivers. Now, he owes me twice the amount of sweets!”

  
  


『✭』

The Skaraieth children are remarkable with their cooperative skills, especially because they were siblings. One of the benefits of being cursed with longevity is learning how to tolerate the same kind of people. Even the worse ones. They were a legion in their world, a reckoning force filled with prowess and understanding—stunting even their own individual weaknesses. They were silent and nimble, quick to send out the first signal of their departure as Morok, Cervantes, and Demetrius came out from the other side of the stone wall gates of the Great Keep. Nothing is fortified, however, it wasn’t an issue, luckily. The trees are thick at the edge of the Terius region, where the marsh to the east and the Nanrane rivers become their sole purpose of guardianship. 

The vegetation is fogged and murky, painted with clouded grays, deep greens, and ominous streaks of darkness. Under their cautious footsteps are the wet trails of mud and the scraps of tiny animal bones and yet, they have yet to make their location known to the Atralis knights approaching from the far south. The three take the cautious approach and turn the field into a point of advantage—spatial awareness takes their complete focus. 

Cervantes can hear every finicky sound that reverberates in the wind, almost moving with the vibrations, as if drawn. Demetrius, on the other hand, can feel the sounds from under her bare feet, her heart thundering with the footsteps of steel-toed boots and the ends of forged lances. Morok, however, takes his time to block out what he could feel in the heat of the marsh. The temperature, like thermal radiation, becomes a bother to him in such a thick atmosphere, honing his senses more onto the canopies of the trees above them.

Though things were different now—the stakes much higher—the siblings had all but kept their composure, even slightly smiling out of this pent eagerness swelling in their chests. They had never gone through such high risks before in their lives, their youth and inexperience would never let them. Now, as they were on their own and put to the test with their future, they ultimately decided to use their recklessness as an advantage point. 

“How about a game of _hide-and-seek?_ ” Morok questions lightly to his brother, who nods.

And then, up the fiery one went, climbing the nearest tree, rising fluidly like smoke. The younger brother is quick on his heels, amplifying his strength into his legs as the wind pushes the back of his calves. He leaps from tree to tree, keeping up with Morok with equal agility. Their sister remains on the ground, scoping out the field behind the veil of fog, already detecting shifts in the fog. 

“Are we gonna give this another go? Pulling off a ‘ _Phase Two_ ’ again?” Demetrius looks up to her brothers from the ground and is shined upon by their smiles.

She rolls her shoulders, steadying herself low to the ground, her knees mesh with the wet earth. Movement finally catches her eyes, severing ties with what she could feel with what she could see. Demetrius breaths jaggedly, shuddering as her hands sink into the mud—the act of winning on her mind.

“Alright, let’s see how close these guards are cut to be like Y/N…”

On the orders of the Queen, the Atralis troops are cautious even during this mission of recon. Intel suggested that the Skaraeith children were at the farthest point possible from princess Y/N’s location and the palace. Advisors had already suggested that the siblings weren’t in the Irie, as there might have been some of Anath’s men still lingering there, ready to make them a bargaining chip. The knights would have consulted with Meister Mavenpoor, however, he was dead, unfortunately— _poisoned_.

Gardenia’s orders were vague but the knights had covered the grounds thoroughly on the way to the Great Keep. The fortress was valiant even abandoned, they treaded cautiously for any sign of Amisian life and for any sign of traps to the Keep. Capturing them was the only thing instructed, and the soldiers were conflicted on the words ‘ _alive_ ’, ‘ _injured_ ’, or ‘ _dead_ ’.

“They’re smart kids, soldiers. They were trained personally under princess Y/N, don’t forget that.” The leading commander, Golgotha had warned, his thick voice being barely carried throughout the fog. 

“They’re just little kids, Commander,” A soldier chimed aloud, sauntering than marching, “How much damage could a few snot-nosed, royal brats can do?”

_Just enough_ , Morok thought passingly.

He puts his fingers to his mouth and blows, inciting a sharp whistle that cuts through the forest. What follows is Cervantes’s assisted power behind the loud signal; a cutting gust of wind that slices through the heavy fog and reveals the troops of Atralis soldiers just in the near distance, and immediately, they raise their heads in alertness.

_“Above us! In the trees! In the trees!”_

A volley of arrows begin to strike against the trunks, scraps of bark pelt the beings below, who see the shadow in the light that begins to shift his body and out of the line of fire. Another move, too, although Cervantes was much more spry than his brother who chose to remain on the same spot. The younger prince attracts most of the soldier’s attention, luckily still moving quickly, unscathed. 

Morok lets go of himself from the tree, plummeting towards the knights that do not see their prince, but a foolish boy that falls like a red comet. His hands trail with smoldering fires, jutting out to circle the soldiers with his hellish flames. The men huddle together, steadying hurriedly to point their lances towards the eldest prince who falls behind the flames, as one had already been thrown.

Although Cervantes is not like his elder sister, he does what he can to dry up the earth of its moisture. He sweeps his hand towards the ground, scooping a valiant force of wind that brings forth a wave of met mud, ultimately deflecting the lance that clatters uselessly in the distance, saving Morok who merely nods in acknowledgement. Demetrius does her part to divert the wave downward, the solid rocks trapping a good half of the soldiers, while some others had taken their chances to escape through the fire. 

“You think these guys are gonna get medically discharged?” Demetrius asks aloud.

“At this point, it’s all dishonorable.” Cervantes shrugs.

Morok puts himself in a readied stance, imagining that he was on the training field like any other day, or when he was out in the woods hunting. For some unfathomable reason, he doesn’t picture himself fighting gallantly, not in the face of danger that he once was so eager to face. He seemed haunted by the idea, worried of the blood he spills, if it was his or someone else’s. He thinks again of his family’s history, remembering what planets the Skaraeith’s had conquered—wondering how many seas of blood it took for him to live such a comfortable life that he values too much, suddenly.

Some part of him blames himself, but he does not dwell on the thought as he thrusts his arms forward to guard himself from a metallic punch that’s directed to his face. He fends off the man in his army’s armor with nerves of brittle steel. His fingers writhe as he throws off the soldier and adds his flames to his leg, sending a flying kick that lands right into the knight’s side. He could feel the breakage of bone under the armor, making Morok grimace.

The fiery prince had taken a glance to the side and was caught on his knees, battling against the force of a sword that had suddenly swung for his head. The white metal had been changed by fire, glowing blindingly that faltered the prince’s strength greatly, to the point where he almost wanted to yield. He should have expected this, he blamed, the knights were adaptable to anything—even them. He almost cursed his mother, but worked harder to sweep the soldier from under his legs. 

Cervantes had been grateful of the blessings he felt as he moved through the air with unmatched precision. He was lucky to move so quickly with the atmosphere much clearer than before, cutting down soldiers behind the knees with a dagger a knight had dropped before the earth had swallowed them. They dropped like wingless flies, open and vulnerable to the aerial divinity that swooped downward to get to his sister, seeing as she was fending for herself against two knights with much greater, towering statues. 

Cervantes hurled the dagger into one of them and curled his fingers for the other, gathering the remnants of the thick fog, its sinuous form curving into a long mistral stretch. Coming from behind, the wind had captured the back of the soldier before throwing him down into the dirt.

“Alright, soldier! Drop and give me _20!_ ” 

As Cervantes had begun to repeatedly slam the soldier into the ground, Demetrius had detected a sudden arc of movement from under her heel. Footsteps, a lot of them, had been storming in from the south. The rumbling had turned into terrible quakes, as a greater number of troops began to enter the field, where Demetrius had given a curse from under her breath.

“Guys, we’ve got reinforcements inbound!” Demetrius exclaims, turning to Morok who is in a struggle with three knights.

“Cervantes! Hurry! Give the signal!” The fiery prince strains as he kicks one of them down and shoves two others, rolling his eyes as he sees his brother’s appalling overkill-attitude, “Time and place, brother!”

_“Okay! Okay!”_ Cervantes groans with bared teeth.

The younger prince drops the soldier with little grace, folding his palms downward as he begins to take a remarkably deep breath. He can feel his lungs expanding at a great pace, using the flexibility in his ribcage to stretch even further as he bends. Cervantes tips his head towards the sky and releases a tremendous, shrilly plume of air that demolishes the tops of the trees. Splinters, leaves, and branches come raining down, but Cervantes is unbothered and more focused on the leathery wings that came down after.

Grey Blood, Sunny, Wrenoria, and Anath come from Cervantes’s left, while Sir Pine, Scuttles, and Nimbus come from his right. The beasts dive in a great flock towards the company from different sides, where Morok, Cervantes, and Demetrius prepare themselves to charge head-on, already prying open their hands to collect their own ability from the burning, windy forest.

“You think the others got out alright?” Demetrius asks Morok.

“Only one way to find out; we get out of this alive.”

And then, with a beastly song, the dragons unleashed their fire.

From behind the fortress of the Great Keep, numerous Amisians had flocked in a large line towards the entrance of the White Hollow woods to the east. Their travel was particularly frightful as the distant sounds of explosions, whistles, and yelling could be heard from further south. However, the other half of the Skaraeith children—Yven, Florentine, and Wisp—had done splendidly to assure their people’s safety. Wisp had the easy task of calming their people as they moved, while his elder sisters had worked hard to cover their tracks.

Yven had stayed behind the line of the people, covering the many footprints in the mud by patches of grass, flowers, and small shrubs. The task was tiring, however, the constant anxious thought of their lives at risk and the foreboding extinction of the royal family was her only powerful drive. She prayed diligently for her sibling’s safety, while Florentine, the hardened and quiet sister, had kept herself from thinking of the evils at all.

Eventually, the Nanrane rivers came into sight, running loudly throughout the barren, where the people’s protectors could easily make their descent onto the bank of the water unnoticed. In large numbers, made from various scraps of metal by Florentine’s abilities, were rafts that floated crookedly along the current. Florentine took the first boat, keeping an eye of the rivers, watchful of any incoming dangers, while Yven and Wisp stayed behind, making sure they weren’t being followed.

Wisp feels something in the pit of his stomach, something foul. He knows the feeling of danger. He felt it when he once ate the last of Y/N’s tarts and she found out. The feeling of anxiety bubbling in his chest, an impending doom that hangs over his shoulders is the only dark cloud that he can’t just shake away—even when their victory is so easily near and without any injuries. He tucks his knees to his chest and looks to Yven, then he thinks about Florentine and Demetrius—ultimately wondering why he doesn’t feel the same way about them as he did with Y/N.

Yven had sensed his struggling thoughts for some time, a being of such brilliant empathy could sense her brother’s worrying mind, even amidst the panic of her people. She came close to him, first listening to the gentle sloshing of the water, then onto the nocturnal fauna that had begun to chirrup and squeak under the light of the moon. It was a gentle night in the greenery, despite the chaos of the city-life. Yven had wondered of all the different ways how a society of people was different than a forest of animals.

“What’s on your mind, little brother?” Yven questioned lightly, running a hand through his hair and rubbing away a speck of dirt from his cheek, “Thinking about all the sweets Meister Mavenpoor will give you once this is all over?”

“Yes, definitely.” Wisp laughed lightly, leaning into Yven’s shoulder. 

Although the smile was short-lived, Yven was grateful for at least brightening the mood a little. His laughter died down quickly, but not as fast as his returning thoughts of powerful dread. He looked to Yven with hesitance, sighing deeper into her hair as he sunk further into his spot. With a meek frown, he took a breath, and a leap of faith.

“I know things will go back to normal,” Wisp said determinedly, watching his sister’s reaction to his words, “I know that things will resolve between the Skaraieth and the Qhyros, between mother and Y/N. Don’t you think they will?”

Yven, _clearly_ , had a great deal of trouble answering that particular question. She pulled away to look at her little brother, wondering just where these thoughts of hope had been coming from. Repressed grievances and false desperations were a bit of a troubling trait within the family, Yven had recently learned. 

“I…hope things will go back to how they were before, too. But, I don’t think everything will truly resolve. It would mean that Y/N and mother would go back to being jaundiced with each other, where we would get their love and care separately. I think that part is just… _inevitable_ ,” Yven answered slowly, mindful of her brother’s expression as his brows furrowed into a hardened crease, “I know that it might not make sense—“

“—No, it does,” Wisp interjected softly, his lips curling into a frown, “I know how that’s the way things are between the two of them. It’s just…I don’t understand why. I don’t understand why Y/N and mother hate each other. I get that Y/N is a bastard, but still! That doesn’t mean that mother could just try and get rid of her like this, it’s not right. We’re still family!”

Yven sighed deeply, shaking her head, “I understand how you feel, little brother. And, I don’t understand either. Unfortunately, none of us were born then to know why. But every family has its issues, just not between us siblings.”

Wisp slowly relaxes, as if for the first time, hearing the distant, beastly song in the wind.

“Yeah…Not us.”

  
  


『✭』

  
  


The Norrathian prince had been slain.

Y/N took to Cyreus’s death silently, mourning as she stayed on her knees beside him, while the capital of Norrath had collapsed from behind. 

Her eyes swayed like the waves of the merciless sea as she bared witness to the deaths of many Atralis knights, crushed under the rubble, smothered by the concrete and ash pits, left to die in the waterways below. The next step of the plan was in motion, but Y/N could just not take her eyes away from the unmoving royal in her arms, caked in thick sludges of blood and washed by soot. She is desperate to push away those fleeting memories of him and fight, as some last show of respect she had for the prince, the semblance of a funeral that they might not get to have. 

Y/N is ignorant and stubborn of the burn on her collarbone, grotesque and hideous, spidering up her shoulder and down to her ribs in splitting black and white cracks. She doesn’t notice that she’s glowing in such horrific colors, but is at least mindful of Steve and Natasha running through the ruined pavement to get them. The city topples over, building after building, and swept away by the currents that Y/N had rigged from the beginning. She doesn’t need to move her arms to control the waves, as the remnants of the city sinks into the sea from the outfall. 

Tony flies overhead to rid Y/N’s sides of the last few soldiers, who had taken the aerial offense and fired their long-spears and crossbows at him. For a moment, they are reminded of the aerial divinity of their young prince, but are reminded of just what kind of pompous, human fool that glides with arrogance as Tony’s metal bracing collapses to unleash a flurry of rockets. All the while, hollering consistently of how they weren’t much of worthy fighters at all.

Tony is, after all, jaundiced with the likes of extraterrestrial beings. 

An explosion from behind numbs Y/N’s left shoulder, emitting a much fiercer burn on her flesh than what Gardenia did. She didn’t see the likes of heels storming through the pavement as she turned her head, left to wonder where the Queen might be in the field of chaos. It was a pricey thought, Y/N agreed, selfish as it was cruel as she removed herself from Cyreus’s corpse. He was an empty husk now, where the parts of a brilliant youth and a determined friend were no longer there. Y/N could only wonder what she would say to Marinella—the death of a sibling had quite troublesome effects.

Y/N came to Steve’s side, her vitakinesis doing only what it could. Though the spindles of flesh maintained the skin from the outside, there was not much she could do with the sprinkles of power searing over her veins. Her hands threw away the gloves and tightened into fists, driving forward to sink the city faster and take it by a much faster and forceful current. Admittedly, she was impatient, now as the reigns were taken by her unspeakable appetites. 

What was left of the carried capital was nothing but a valley of wet destruction, being cleared out and dumped into the sea by the outfall and Y/N’s brutal forces. The stepping stones and rushing labyrinth was beginning to cloud in darkness, the light of the blue moon was upon them, and the side of the living had done their part. Tony had dived towards the castle with Natasha, ensuring the safety of the Norrathians behind its walls—while Steve and Y/N examined the field for any more soldiers. 

_Another city falls_ , Y/N thinks sadly, watching as a stray tower topples and collapses into the pit of the city, washing away its foundations of stone as Y/N curls her fingers gently. 

The droplets tore apart the framed windows and the waves destroyed the bricks. Y/N cursed her power for some time, finding it more of a havoc to use rather than to clean up after. The prince of Norrath would have certainly been mistakenly proud, though he is left on the outskirts of the city where Steve carried him, mourning shortly. Y/N doesn’t look back, she doesn’t need to, only looking forward to any sign of Gardenia’s survival—hellbent on ending it herself.

Steve had laid the lance in Cyreus’s open palm, taking his fingers in his hand to curl the weapon, and laying his arm across his chest. A sign of protection, he wants to say, as he died defending his home. Some bitter memories come flooding back onto this alien being, and Steve doesn’t allow himself to push them away, unlike some people. Some twisted and darker part of him wants to remember, as he now realizes that these events happen everywhere, not just on Earth.

New York changed his outlook on the universe, changing him. He felt pity for this being he did not know, and not because he died from such a common soldier’s cause, but because he was a living thing.

Storm flowers, something that Steve Rogers had never seen before, had been picked from an untouched patch of barren land, where Y/N had rested them over Cyreus’s eyes. Their bluish-grey petals had been kissed by the rain, where a long streak of light color slowly slipped from his cheek. Y/N repressed the urge to wipe it away, already vocalizing prayers, of what Steve assumes, whispering words of a language that nearly paralyzes his ears. He is seized by the sharpness of her words, but listens to every sound that she makes, ignoring the piercing and thundering resounding that rattles his head. Her tongue is truly never meant to say human words. 

“We need to keep moving,” Y/N’s thick voice startles Steve, eyes taken towards the light of the explosions that sound off towards the gate of the castle, “I fear that your friends might not be able to hold off Gardenia for very long. Not by themselves.”

Wordlessly, Steve agrees and breaks away towards the castle, after sparring a final glance to Y/N. She only closes her eyes for a moment, whispering one final word before turning to run with him. He doesn’t want to ask, begrudgingly, continuing to run towards the neck of smoke.

Coming to the castle was the easy part, running through the jagged motions, over mounts of rubble and discarded limbs, those differences weren’t as difficult to deal with. Although, the hailstorm beating down their necks was a resiliently annoying feat. The gates to the castle, the iron-barred walls fixed between two marble pillars had been ripped apart, sheared down the middle, where the two towering stones had collapsed and collided into one another—making a new, horrific welcoming for Y/N and Steve.

“You three round the citizens towards the walls, and kick down the beacon into the city. I’ll do what I can to keep her off your tails.” Y/N says, pleased with the agreeing nod Steve gives as he speeds through the parlor.

Y/N makes her own path towards the throne room, directly north of the opening, ignoring the speckles of lavender color that mixed oddly with the blue. Knowing this sense of danger, knowing that it had been someone’s blood, Y/N could not take her own impatience, already flinging herself over the rails of steps with her hands curling and twisting. The purple, red, and clear came towards her legs, carrying her higher and faster, wincing at the sharp lashes of wind that hit against her cheeks.

Y/N wants to understand what made her move even more feverishly, wanting to assure herself that she could take the reins of doing much more than striking this tyrant she called a step-mother, but she didn’t even call Gardenia that. She wonders what she thinks of her, thinking, as if almost endlessly, of what kind of person she could see the Queen as other than a monster. The monster who had birthed her most favorite people in her life, who she raised, who she could not bring herself to hate. 

Every facet of the word ‘ _understanding_ ’ sickens her to the core as she reaches the throne room, stepping into this new light of monstrosity while seeing the woman who had hung years of torment and misery on her shoulders in front of her, nestled on the throne, comfortable and smiling generously with blood dripping from her hands.

_It’s my blood_ , Y/N assures herself, _it’s only my blood._

Something explodes in the far distance of the city, bringing relief towards Y/N as she knows the walls of fire are what keeps Gardenia from leaving unscathed. The people are safe, she reminds herself constantly, and there’s nothing left except them. Y/N is tense in every which way, watching Gardenia’s every movement, down to the shifts of moisture in the air around her. Although nothing ever moves, Y/N finds herself flinching anyway, jumping as Gardenia stands tall. 

“It seems I should have made sure that my light took the heart out of your chest.” Her sickly sweet voice is like poison to Y/N’s ears, to which she releases a bitter scoff.

“I’d like to do the same to you. But then again, you don’t have a heart, do you?”

Gardenia suddenly has the audacity to laugh, almost startling Y/N as she begins to curl her fingers, pulling the heavy atmosphere into her palms. Moisture turns into tiny, needle-like crystals, and Y/N was just aching to throw them.

“You are your father’s daughter, you know that? Though, you’re not my daughter. I suppose that fact will make it easier for me to kill you. You’ll be with him, soon. I guarantee it.”

Y/N expression immediately hardens, a fierce ignition of rage is prominent in her eyes, enough to make it glow. At that sight, Gardenia’s face turned from grinning to pleased, her eyes drinking in the sight of that anger. Alight with her unraveled step-daughter, Gardenia’s approach began to slow, as if approaching the lion’s den. Y/N had been watchful of her every move, but had begun to think of the many different ways of tearing this woman’s throat out rather than guarding her’s.

“I don’t understand you,” Y/N muttered lowly, her footwork beginning to slow, circling Gardenia who did not move yet, “You killed the man you loved and me, and then what? Morok and the others would never let you anywhere near that throne once they find out that you _murdered_ me. Because your orders killed the king, all of them have control over the Atralis army once they get here. And we both know that they’re not just gonna sit in the Great Keep twiddling their thumbs. I taught them better than that.”

Gardenia looks away for a moment, eyes towards the light of the crack of dawn.

“And if I _don’t_ kill you, then what will they say to you? You’re destroying Norrath, you’re destroying your own kind, they know that by now _because_ you taught them,” Gardenia smiles softly, hands folding intricately, beginning to mold a harsh light into her palms, “They know you’re not just the protective, loving, and strong big sister that you’ve played out to be for so long. You’re here, after the wrong person. After me, their mother. And you’ve just guaranteed the possibility of _Krow’s_ escape from our planet while you’re here with me. How utterly frustrating.”

Y/N tightens her fists, fighting against every fiber of her being not to grab hold of the moisture and tighten the air around Gardenia’s throat either. She lowers her head, as if in shame, thinking of just that—Krow’s possible escape from Amis. Y/N is conflicted with the circumstances, frustrated with herself of the risks and safety of others who could be caught in the crossfire.

“Isn’t it frustrating that even if you succeed, I still die p _eacefully?_ ”

_The man who killed the king and is on the run, or the woman who masterminded the downfall of the royal family and is planning an invasion of tyranny?_

_“Your death will be anything but_ ** _peaceful_** _. I promise you that!_ ”

Y/N makes the first move, taking a running head start towards Gardenia with a volley of ice raining down from above. With a colorless whip forming in one hand, Y/N does her best to come in from the side with the other, striking Gardenia at the ribs with an impressive starting strength. The icicles, however, barely do their work as Gardenia rolls from the princess’s impact, holding her wound while only one spike had snagged and sliced open her ankle. Though the queen staggers, she is quick to rise again, unleashing a blinding feint from her hands that stun Y/N into a blinking frenzy, shocked by the momentary burn in her eyes. 

The queen keeps the timing of her punches just right as she slides by her knees to get into close range of Y/N’s torso. Taking a few hits, Y/N works valiantly to dismiss the black and red spots invading her vision, seeing only a little of Gardenia and just barely deflecting each blow. From elbow to knuckle, forearm to wrist, Gardenia works her way upward, finding any detection of a fatal opening in Y/N’s form.

Although Y/N’s form was staggering and feverish, Gardenia had been more than cautious with her own movements, reminding herself that she was not only taking a stand against her bastard step-daughter, but the infamous Wild Star, the ex-general of the Atralis army. Rumors afloat and records in the bloodied history marked Y/N to be the most formidable and deadly conqueror in the universe, but Gardenia was open to the idea that she was much lesser, only in the face of family—blood or found.

Gardenia and Y/N collide fists, ensuing a terrible shockwave that rattles the Norrathian throne room.

“What’s keeping you, daughter?” Gardenia provokes with a wicked grin, “All these years and this is the best you’ve got? You’ve struck harder than this!”

Thoughts of the recent conflicts begin to swarm Y/N’s mind, memories of her father, Cyreus, Aruul, and many of her people’s deaths cloud her mind heavily. As she peers into the face of his wretched being, only a fraction of that rage is put to use as Y/N gives an unruly yell of anger, tensing the muscles in her arms to throw off Gardenia while gaining less proximity. Y/N uses the leftover distance to leap and deliver a dropkick into the queen’s stomach, catching herself and twisting from the ground to rise quickly. 

Y/N’s raised jabs follow with unmatched precision, where Gardenia can barely deflect the impacts in time while she struggles to catch her own breath. The impact of her blows are suddenly much more colossal, as the queen has a much harder time of readying herself for the next hit, straining to put her arms back up and down with equal speed. Gardenia forces herself to become tired out, amplifying her strength into her light that overcomes her guarded limbs for some kickback. It takes a promising effect, as Y/N had trouble delivering more blows while the skin of her knuckles were practically singed off. 

With the long whip of liquid finally finishes materializing, Y/N angles her wrist, snapping it forward where the end of the cord bends and slashes the queen. The sound is a satisfying crack that was sure to be heard outside of the capital, while some ruby drops finally begin to spill onto the azure floors. While it had rekindled some primal blood thirst in Y/N, however, the feeling had a different reaction than before. Her pulse quickens, yet her heart feels slow and perturbed, flickering onto the wound and Gardenia’s expression that makes Y/N seize.

At such a sight, the queen is _amazed_.

_She’s never shown such cowardice before_ , Gardenia thinks laughingly, coming back on her feet as she holds her oozing, bloody side.

It finally gives her an opening.

“What’s wrong, _Wild Star?_ ” Gardenia cackles aloud, taking advantage of Y/N’s slow reaction and thrusts blazing spears of light, “I thought you were stronger than this. Look at you now, you’re pathetic! You’re weak!”

Each tip severed the urge to focus on her defensive instincts, rendering Y/N to her knees as the thick atmosphere was beginning to catch up with her heaving lungs. Blood spills from her chest, legs, and neck, Suddenly, all the weight of the years was taking its toll, as if she never had to deal with it before. She didn’t see Gardenia as this monster, but an unhinged, pitiful woman. 

_Do something_ , Y/N encouraged, practically begging herself, _anything!_

Gardenia can see the bastard’s internal dilemma, shooting herself forward by the ends of her heels to thrust forward another cutlass of light. While Y/N was conscious enough to catch the tip of the weapon by the ends of her palms, she was not able to keep herself from skidding across the throne room as Gardenia pushed her towards the very edge of the open balcony behind the throne. Y/N’s back collided with the marble railings, her spine straining, hanging over, at least, a thousand foot fatal drop into the sea, and her backside was beginning to falter and slip lower against the ledge.

“After all these years, I thought you had more in you. But look at you now, finally standing…well, _leaning_ …in the face of death.”

Y/N chokes against Gardenia’s knee that shoves into her chest, pushing her further over the railing. She grips what she can—her dress, the marble ledge, her knee, the opposing force of Gardenia’s weapon—anything that kept her from falling to a quite gruesome death. The grotesque wound that she had suffered a while ago was now becoming more of a bother than it ever did before. The remnants of Gardenia’s previous power were beginning to become stronger the closer Y/N was to her, scorching and weakening her against the blade. 

This time, Y/N was certain that Gardenia wasn’t going to aim for the chest.

“Do you have a final prayer to say to the gods of the Overworld?”

As the light of the sunrise shines upon Y/N’s eyes, for a moment, she sees nothing but pure light. Unlike Gardenia’s monstrous own luminance, she feels a calmer warmth that brings an overpowering ease to her chest. The breath of pain she has held in her chest withers away, and an overdue silence is the only thing they both hear. 

Y/N gives Gardenia a hollow smile.

  
  


_“I pray that you know how to swim.”_

  
  


The Wild Star lets herself fall over the edge, bringing Gardenia down with her. 

  
  


Though the queen unleashes a hellish, frightful scream, Y/N maneuvers herself through the air without having to strain against her deep wounds as they plummet. The princess manages to hover over the frantic queen, placing her own knee against the middle of her back while taking a hold of her wrists, twisting and pulling them backwards. 

Y/N’s eyes flash against the golden sun, blazing against the light until it hits only reflections as they plummet into the sea. The impact it does onto Gardenia is catastrophic; fracturing every frontal bone, the weight of the water crushing what protected anything internal, and rendering the destroyed queen into an unconscious state, miraculously still alive and barely breathing. Y/N feels nothing bothersome from the ocean, only stirring uncomfortably while Gardenia had received only the worst. 

The princess becomes surrounded with the motions of water—her territory, letting go of Gardenia’s wrists and letting her float aimlessly. As her eyes catch the sight of Gardenia’s blood polluting the blue of the sea, it brings a curious idea to Y/N who immediately takes the risky chance. She does not let herself become fearful with doubt, instead pursuing action. 

From Gardenia’s body and her own, Y/N gathers a great amount of blood that surrounds them both in a great red and purple cloud. What was once a foggy stain in the blue becomes a much more formidable material; a solid cage that keeps Gardenia from rising to the surface and hitting the sand. Suspended was Gardenia’s permanent prison, a tomb, a place that Y/N had thought that was more merciful than death and more hellish than jail—a home of nothingness and isolation—perfect for a monster like her.

Y/N had taken one last look at Gardenia, wondering just what could have been done other than this.

With a hesitant, slow hand reaching out and stroking her cheek, Y/N had quickly begun her ascent back onto the surface, where Tony, Steve, and Natasha were undoubtedly waiting for her arrival. The princess broke through the surface, blinking profusely to adjust to the light of the beautiful sunrise just towards the ocean’s horizon. Y/N considered herself to be unlucky to be graced with such a sight after what she had done, still clinging onto that hesitance that kept her from killing her step-mother.

Y/N relished with the peace of Norrath, before turning to swim towards the shore.

The arrival back into the capital was anything but easy. From climbing the cliffside, almost falling a painful death herself, Y/N had been certain of herself that she had her fill of fighting for at least another thousand years. The mossy edges of the cliffs proved to be a much more difficult surface to grip, finally heaving herself over into the dirt and rolling comfortably on her back with a lengthy, dramatic sigh. Y/N had soaked in the sun on her skin, feeling a warmth that was unmatched against the cold of the sea, though the sounds of the waves were quite peaceful, too. 

She listened to nothing but the world, feeling the very heartbeat of the planet that was as hard and slow as her own. The squalling of sea birds in the distance were not enough to stir Y/N out of her moment of peace, though it had brought a feeling of certain yearning to see her beloved Grey Blood, any of those beasts. Then, not long after, she wanted nothing more than to see her siblings—safe and sound—clutched close and tight in her arms. Her eyes welcomed the vast colors of the blue sky, puffy clouds shading a good portion of the generous sunlight, finally regaining the aching nerves in her limbs to roll back on her stomach and push herself up, albeit, while groaning painfully. 

She looked behind her for a moment, wondering what could be done about Gardenia and the other Atralis knights that were either dead or alive. A funeral would be held, without question, for the soldiers. However, Y/N had also thought of what could happen when her siblings found out what she had done to their mother. 

And, she had almost forgotten their father. 

With a furrowed expression and a sluggish start in her path, Y/N headed back towards the capital, coming towards the southern gate of the walls, smiling as she crossed through the stone entrance, nearly leaning on the foundations. Her eyes had completely drank in the sight of the destroyed city. Although the central town and road were ruined, Y/N was certain of herself that Norrath was still formidable. She gave her unspoken respects to the Saeles folk and Cyreus, praying for his safe departure to the Everworld, wishing him a peaceful afterlife that he could not have received from the living. 

As Y/N cut corners to avoid certain destroyed factions of the city, she eventually stumbled upon the refugees of Norrath towards the northern section of the walls. Men, women, and children alike had huddled together, worried and fearful even on such a beautiful day. The battle was over, Y/N assured herself, as if rehearsing what she could tell them—her people. Gardenia is gone as long as Y/N was alive, as long as her blood still flows. Gardenia was gone.

The people of Norrath had eventually caught the sight of the injured princess, beginning to bow down in her limping presence, catching her off guard as she finally took notice of the crowd that kneeled. For the first time, even as a royal, Y/N was utterly speechless in the presence of her people. She wondered if she deserved such a merciful display after what she had just done to their queen. Although, the three humans who had begun to run towards her, were more concerned with her safety rather than the queen’s. Y/N suddenly had the urge to smile, her legs buckling low as they came near.

“You’re all okay—“ Natasha had gripped Y/N by the shoulders as she had seen that the Amisian was about to collapse as she saw them, lightly laughing even through her distress as she slumped against her. It was a small moment of deja vu. 

“ _Whoa!_ Easy there, princess. You’re alive,” Tony brushed his thumb against a few minor wounds while eyeing nervously at the deeper ones, “Bleeding...really, really badly…but still alive!”

“Tony.” Steve warned lowly, eliciting a nod from the genius who apparently had just gotten the hint. 

“Yup, on it.” Tony muttered quickly as he came to hoist Y/N against his shoulders, beginning to help Natasha guide her through the crowd of Amisians who had risen from their kneel, now concerned for their injured princess.

“Did everyone make it? Is everyone else okay?” Y/N’s questions were rolling quite weakly off of her tongue, slurred and slow, inciting an equally stumbling laugh from Steve who did his best to prevent her from using any more of her faltering strength.

“Yes, Y/N. The people of Norrath are okay, we just need to get you back to the palace and back to your siblings.”

Y/N had taken in the sights of where they were headed, frowning as she noticed that she was beginning to notice the path they were taking as they traversed deeper into the city. Careless of her own footsteps, the princess had begun to let her own legs drag freely against the broken pavement the closer they got to a patch of picked storm flowers. Its stems swayed mindlessly with the breeze, where next to the empty patch was the body of Cyreus.

The humans knew their place in this moment of silence, silently listening to Y/N’s stifling sobs into her hands as she kneeled gently beside him. Death was a familiar curse for them all, and it seemed that both the extraterrestrial and the humans had all but similar ways of dealing with such pain, no matter how long the span of their lives could be. Y/N did not know when her’s was. His crown of storm flowers against his eyes had made Y/N’s tears flow freely, mourning for the first time in years for her loved ones that were gone by a single morning.

“They’re so terribly beautiful on him, aren’t they?”

  
  


『✭』

The Echealion city was amidst a time of chaos, filled with fearful and frightened noblemen, women, and children that had troublingly listened to the commands of the Atralis company that had been on evacuation orders. Luckily, while residing in the Elysium and not in the line of cross-fire between the Skaraeith family, Y/N and the group found it amazingly easy to get into the central city without the commands of Gardenia on their agenda anymore. A simple wave and a threatening glare from their eldest princess was enough to send them scampering off with their tails between their legs. 

Up the stairs of the Seeing Gates was also a needlessly cautious path, wandering under empty chambers and vacant roads. The palace had just been in the near distance, where Steve, Natasha, and Tony had relinquished in the sight of the Skaraieth palace, finding much more appealing when it wasn’t nighttime and wasn’t collapsing into a pit of fire by miscalculated escape pods. Although they were traversing through broad daylight, Steve felt a looming sense of danger the closer they approached the entrance of the palace, even between the pristine marble and shining gold. 

“Your family is royalty,” Natasha wonders aloud, hoping to make a small conversation, “We’ve got a friend who's a royal and a god. Do all intergalactic royal families know each other? Do you have any gods?”

Y/N hums in agreement, eyes adrift absentmindedly towards below the Seeing Gates and the sky. Her fingers motioned the waves of the sea as they stayed at her sides, though, she thought it would be best to prepare herself for any lingering threat that could ambush them on the bridge, almost playing with the moisture in the air.

“There were many old gods on our planet, but not many other intergalactic beings are both gods and royalty. I’m certain that we don’t all know each other,” Natasha nods thoughtfully to her answer, already crossing out a certain name in her head, “There’s _Ahnselias_ , the god of being, essence, spirit, home, and life… _Elthea_ , the goddess of beliefs, morale, wisdom, judgement, fertility, and virtue…”

“Already I’ve forgotten the names.” Tony mutters quietly to Steve, ultimately suffering and hacking by a quick, silencing jab in the ribs.

“ _Visreus_ , the god of warcraft, carnage, mercy, promise, protection, and violence… _Xipha_ , the goddess of love, cherishing, dreams, and willpower…and _Paeorous_ , the god of rebellion, sacrament, sacrifice, discovery, and truth…” Y/N laughs teasingly, shrugging her shoulders, “Those are just a handful, though, I can tell you’re already lost on me.”

The humans resound a nervous chuckle, luckily not insulting Y/N as she shakes her head dismissively with a smile.

“My grandfather, Anath Skaraieth, the First _Rhos’soel_ and Amisian, constructed this palace immediately after destroying the old gods,” Y/N explained lowly to the humans, already feeling their skeptical eyes at the back of their heads, “It’s how the story goes in history, not quite yet a mythical tale of old or a fabled legend.”

“Apparently, the _Eidolon_ is.” Steve chimed, causing Y/N to freeze immediately in her tracks.

The group comes to an abrupt stop, startled by Y/N who snaps her head to Rogers, overcome with an emotion that is unknown at first glance, but is certainly haunting behind her blazing eyes. She hesitates to speak with her sharp tongue that coils like a snake, bringing forth only a scolding and trembling finger to his face, biting back a few certain words.

“The Eidolon…” Y/N musters a shaky breath, “The Eidolon is **_not_** a myth or a legend…They…are a being of _monstrosity_. _The unholy embodiment of absolute ungodly evil_. _They—_ “

Y/N stops herself as she notices that her voice is getting louder. Every despicable bone in her body is full of wrath the more she speaks of that vile entity. She remembers so little, and so much at the same time, cursing her memory itself that the images still haunt her there, plaguing her dreams into horrendous nightmares and constantly infests her every waking thought.

They march in gold and fall in red…Y/N tightens her fist.

_A knight with armor made of blood…_

The only true monster that was left in Y/N’s life was alive in her memories.

Y/N turns sharply back towards the palace, entering its gates and through the beginning of the parlor, letting the humans who are still shocked to speak, linger for a while before running to catch up. The haunted Amisian is now a thing they know not to cross, Steve reminds himself, especially with thoughts of the past. The humans dwell in that feeling of shock and fright, before turning cautious as they go through the parlor, weapons and armor ready for anything sudden.

Y/N, however, is not worried for any soldiers that could block their path to the entrance, but the words that are scribbled over its walls. In a deep red color, what was undoubtedly old blood, was the word ‘ _REGICIDE_ ’ above the doorway to the throne room. Immediately, Y/N concludes that Krow had not taken the opportunity to escape the planet, not without her, at least. Though, the princess suspected that he would try to convince her to.

An uneasy tension falls upon all of them as they stand among the bloodied words, their heads turning in alert as they hear a sudden incoming commotion coming from the western entrance. Tony’s armor gives a prolonged, droning hum, followed by a crackling beaming pulse that becomes louder with the stretch of his metal palm. Steve hoists the shield higher towards his chest, ready to either throw or deflect what could be hurriedly speeding down the palace corridor. Natasha reloaded the clips of her Widow’s Bite, feeling an electrical surge buzz around her wrists, sending an assuring nod to Y/N who also lowers, prying open her palm that gathers water and is enamored by the feeling of power back in her aching hands.

With a sudden beat of silence that deafens the group, they are taken by surprise by the music of dragons and their unfurling wings that come rocketing down the hallway and soaring through the parlor, screeching with eagerness. Y/N takes a second, almost unrecognizing them before she feels a particularly heavy weight on her own shoulders, shuddering at the feeling of a deep purr rumbling against the nape of her neck. 

Grey Blood had almost brought Y/N into a state of tears, again, laughing in relief with brimming tears.

“You mongrel!” Y/N soothes the creature with slow strokes against his wings, humming with his affectionate purr, “Gods, I was so worried!”

“ _Great_ , just great,” Stark mutters as he lowered his palm with an uneasy tone, eyes drawn skittishly to the winged beasts flying on the ceiling, “More…mythical…sharp-toothed…mangy…dragons.”

**_“Y/N!”_ **

The voice of the Skaraeith children is a symphony of relief. It brings happiness and ease to Y/N as she finds herself tackled by her siblings in a crushing hug. Each one of them pile on her injured body, though, Y/N could not have cared less as she returned their tearful and shivering embrace. The humans had been in shock by the sight of children storming through the hallway to deliver a certainly painful hug. However, they understood that it was a heartfelt reunion as the sound of laughter resounded throughout the palace. 

Y/N stood to her feet quickly, checking on each and every single sibling for any signs of injury. They whined and protested of her half-sister’s worrying, however, Steve could already tell that they were much better off under the care of their elder half-sibling than with their heartless birth mother. The humans were now hesitant to intrude on these moments, especially since none of them were any good with children. Especially Tony.

_Space children_ , he thought dreadfully, _intergalactic, alien, space children…_

“Y/N,” Wisp chimed as he let go of his sister’s leg, “Who are these people?”

“They’re _humans!_ ” Yven exclaimed with amazement, stepping a bit closer with her other two sisters.

“ _Humans?_ ” Morok muttered suspiciously, narrowing his fiery eyes at them with Cervantes doing the same.

“Why is their kind on our planet, sister?” The second-prince asked with the same tone, taking a whiff of the air and wrinkled his nose sourly.

“That’s enough,” Y/N said sharply, turning towards Tony, Natasha, and Steve, gesturing a hand towards them with a gentle smile, “These are the humans that helped _save_ our world. This is Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, and Natasha Romanoff…apparently, they are Earth’s greatest defenders.”

“You can just call us the _Avengers_ , kids,” Tony gives a nervous wave before sending a sly grin, “If you’d like, we can do autographs.”

And, immediately, Tony’s moment of arrogance is cut short by yet another jab to the ribs. Steve sends him a rightful glare of his flaunting suggestions, while Natasha rolls her eyes and gives the Skaraeith children a quick, greeting wave. The violent act somehow seemed to have appeased the Skaraieth siblings, received as their glares turned soft and their arms had dropped from guarding their torso. Morok had given Tony’s armor a quick gesture of acknowledgement, eyes captured by the striking colors, particularly the red.

“Nice suit.” Morok says stiffly, clearly hiding that he was impressed by Tony’s multimillion dollar armor of Mark XLVII. 

_“Thanks…”_ Tony says as he chokes on his own spit, worried he might have also choked on his own blood.

“Okay, enough with the small talk here,” Y/N begins, bringing her siblings and the humans in a small huddle, a hand extended towards the bloodied walls of the throne room entrance, “This, right here, is the part where you all get to the Vault under the palace, okay? Tony, Steve, and Natasha are gonna make sure you stay safe getting there. I don’t want you anywhere near the throne room if anything gets out of hand—“

_“—What!?”_ Wisp exclaims with vivid anger.

_“No way!”_ Morok bursts out with a hardened expression, pointing a finger towards the throne room, “If anything, we should _all_ confront Gardenia and Krow for all of this in the first place!”

Immediately, Y/N reels back in a stunned silence. A bit of panic begins to accelerate the pounding in her heart, realizing that she had just left an extremely crucial part of the reason why they had to escort their people into places of refuge in the first place. Her eyes dwindle to the bloodied floor at her feet, frowning now behind her palm as she begins to recount the events of the recent days in her head, trying to collect them and create a delicate explanation for it all. The silence takes its toll on the Skaraeith siblings, who eye nervously at their elder sister, frowning even deeper as she slowly turns her gleaming eyes to them.

“Gardenia…isn’t in the throne room. It’s just…Krow.”

A horrified silence hangs in the room.

_“What happened to mother?”_

That name, Y/N’s eyes shut tightly before turning to face her youngest brother. Wisp already has dreadful thoughts filled behind the eyes, and it takes everything in Y/N to keep herself from telling Wisp and the rest of her siblings. With a soothing hand circling around her back, she feels grateful for the encouragement given by Natasha, as well as the other humans. The hardships were tough to deal with alone, but she wasn’t this time, not anymore.

“I had to imprison Gardenia…I had to keep her from hurting any one of you or our people any longer. She had planned a tyrannical reign after getting rid of me, wanting to put me back into the Atralis army as its General, again. She came to look for me in Norrath and led a siege. She…had already commanded Krow to kill father…And I just couldn’t stand by and watch what would happen if she had any one of you. I’m sorry.”

Though the older two princes had an easier time to adjust to the answer, it was the triplets and Wisp who had a harder time understanding just what could have transpired. Conflicted with the thought of imprisonment over death, Wisp had looked to Y/N with a worried frown, unable to look over the fact that such a thing could have happened to their own mother—even if any of them didn’t really see eye to eye. The triplets had consoled each other over Y/N’s answer, seemingly in agreement that imprisonment was the best option to get answers without being killed. 

Morok deemed Y/N as the strongest Amisian alive for that, as he knew, out of all the siblings, how much she probably wanted to kill Gardenia and ended up not being able to—choosing the love of her siblings rather than her own appetites and own darker reasons. He nods in understanding, taking the role of the future heir and beginning to lead his siblings towards the eastern hallway of the palace, to the Vault. 

While the others had already decided that they needed to leave, they had stayed for Wisp who had suddenly clutched the waist of his elder half-sister. Y/N comforted her brother with silent, affectionate strokes along his hair as he sniffled and sobbed into her side, but was surprised by how fast he pulled away to look at her with his red, puffy eyes. 

“You better come back,” He sniffles as she pressed a kiss to his head, “I better hear you…I better hear you in the dark.”

  
  


『✭』

  
  


Y/N steps into the entrance of the throne room, greeted by the clouded snowblight sun, the gently silent fall of powdered white, and the silhouette of a person standing in front of the central throne of Amis. The golden chair, her original, most important birthright, is blocked by the person she used to call a friend, a dear loved one, someone who had been there since the beginning when all others were rotting in the ground. She refuses to call out to him, feeling a swell of conflicting wrath and disgust in her chest that urges her to rip out his innards where he stood, while the wiser part of her does its part to elicit a greeting hum from her chest.

Krow Vulnir does not have the heart to face her yet, however.

“So, this is where you were,” Y/N chimes softly, taking a few steps further towards his back with knitted brows, “I knew you didn’t have the guts to leave this planet…Not on your own.”

_Say something_ , Y/N pleads quietly, _let me know that you’re okay._

Krow takes a moment, and then a breath. He doesn’t like to let the world of Amis hear his laughter so sparingly, but for her, for Y/N, he gives a gentle, genuine chuckle. The Amisian doesn’t feel the need to be shocked as she was listening to his unexpected form of assurance. His willpower is as equal to hers, if not stronger, as he keeps his composure—unlike all those other times back in the younger days.

Krow was not a coward, anything but a conniving and craven idiot, now, Y/N can see.

  
  


_His name…his name…his real name…_

Y/N never liked Krow’s **real** name.

  
  


_“You know me so well, my brightest star.”_

~~~~


	15. Homeward Bound「15」

## 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫

_My Brightest Star._

He called me, _My Brightest Star._

Breathe, Y/N. _Breathe_.

What immaculate and profound reasons she had for staying still within the throne room, only a few feet away from the man that deliberately disobeyed and betrayed her trust, had been killing her on the inside—the thought of letting the snake head of injustice still sit on a neck was tearing her apart—wanting to rip off his very own. Y/N looked back on her life in between the beats of silence, wondering where exactly it all went wrong. 

Perhaps it was when she told him of her considered marriage to Cyreus, a factor that became the main drive to such acts of jealousy. _No_ , Krow was much smarter than that, he knew from the beginning that she would say no, regardless, even if she was threatened with her life. Y/N tried for a wound that cut deeper, one that drew more than blood and hit bone. It could have been that he was so worried of not being able to see her again, desperate to keep himself in her life, even against the wishes of the Queen. However, Y/N shook her head once more. _No_ , even though he refuted to obey her wishes and promised to join any semblance of a rebellion, he still carried out the order of committing regicide—killing their king, her father.

_Personal reasons_ , Y/N thought quickly, _think personal reasons._

Yet, before she could think of anything even remotely conclusive, Krow Vulnir had ceased such a train of thought as he took his first step towards her, amused with the glimpse of Y/N’s discordant, blazing eyes snapping back to watch him, scrambling wordlessly to be back on her guard. There are knives twisting into her own healing wounds, where she wonders what kind of awful things are twisting in his—what keeps Krow from finishing the job, from killing her. He, of all people, knew how she wished to leave the realm of the living, anxiously waiting for him to end it—even if she knows he doesn’t want to.

The Slaughter of the Taevern, the War of Unbound Fire, is a day that haunts Krow the least. He was able to see past the macabre details and images that turned all into but a mere, fading blur. However, on that day, after he crossed swords against someone who sought their deaths, it was when Krow realized that he was suited to be a courageous fool for Y/N—his beloved friend—stupid enough to begin considering that he could remain by her side for eternity as her protector.

It was not personal enough.

Y/N’s mouth slants into what cuts close as a frown, a creased and hardened form turns her face from apprehensive to dubious. Krow does not falter, however, he was having a hard time trying not to. The princess acts on raw instinct, a mix of something maternal and defensive, a hidden bold strive that pushes the sore muscles in her legs to move closer to him. He can’t react, he doesn’t want to. The act of comforting him had somehow been in her cards, where she struggles to come closer with a hand to reach out, yet far enough not to get it sliced off. 

“Gardenia is gone,” Y/N says quietly with an unknown tone, supposedly scoldingly, and Krow feels as if they were innocent kids again, “I trapped her at the bottom of the Norrathian ocean. And, even though I didn’t kill her, you can stop being…like _this_ …You can stop acting like a wounded guard-dog. You and I both know it’s not going to lessen the years of your own imprisonment.” 

The recovery is harsh for him more as her breath stalls, her lashes falling gentler than he expected, where he almost thinks she wants to reach out and hold him. 

“That is the only mercy I can grant you,” Yet, Y/N is right to keep her distance, merely gazing and numb with pity on this broken creature, using her leftover strength to only ask, “How could you do this after the things we did?” 

_Have you no mercy, Krow?_ He asks himself. _Do you not have mercy for those you’ve committed such sins against?_

It was her own personal reasons that gave her the strength to push that question off her tongue.

Krow finds it hard to search for the answer and excruciating when he finally does, now wondering if becoming Gardenia’s right-hand really was a thing of mercy or just a way to console himself. He leaves the rest of his burdens in the dark, facing towards this being of light, who looked anything but bright. A misshapen, wounded, dull adversary was the outcome of his actions, and he thought it was a punishment to answer her.

“I am her son,” Krow responds quietly, beginning to cage himself with trembling arms, “I am…her son, too. I didn’t want you to know that we were the same. Not because of her. You didn’t deserve to know that after what we did—“

“— ** _Whose_** son?” Y/N asks painfully, releasing a slow, heated sigh behind gritted teeth, “Gardenia’s… _Gardenia’s son?_ ”

Krow stands against Y/N, watching a primordial, instinctive emotion unravel behind her eyes and his. There is disappointment, anger, and an awful abundance of hurt. His throat clogs with hesitation, the remnants of what voice he had left shrink into pathetic whispers as to try and not worsen her with them. He insensibly thinks back to the beginning of his life and her’s. Bastards born of broken bonds, forming tainted blood. From Y/N, Ramses. And from Krow, Gardenia. 

They both just hate the bond.

_No_ , she wants to say, _no way is Krow telling the truth._

Ghosts are what is left in snowblight and Y/N thinks of them as the faces of her past. How they met, the two bastards, is a story that brings bitter tears and sweet pain. Y/N remembers everything during their first encounter, every word spoken, every movement made. However, she doesn’t remember the ghostly face of Gardenia behind Krow, certainly not as what he claimed her to be; his godforsaken mother.

“How…” Y/N tightens her fists, using everything she had in her not to devoid his lungs of air, “Why would you even…How could you have kept this from me? How do you even know that Gardenia is your mother? You certainly didn’t inherit any of her traits…Not the bitchy ones, at least.”

Krow almost wants to laugh, just how they used to. However, he is frightened of the idea that Y/N could start drawing similarities, especially physical. Though he knows that his green greatly contrasts with his mother’s white, Krow is cautious of his hands that control it. Such surges of energy could not go unnoticed by Y/N who had begun to come even closer. And suddenly, Krow has a hard time not to let his fingers twitch. 

“I’ve known for a long time, Y/N. Even before we met,” Krow frowns deeper, his heel pushing himself backwards, “Your father didn’t know…but he was about to. Gardenia could never allow that, not while she wanted to rise into power…”

Y/N, however, doesn’t stop moving despite her tears.

“When Gardenia told me that she was going to have another child, I had to keep you from finding out while I confronted her. That is when I threatened Oryosi to be under my employment. But then…” Krow moves away, eyes singed with shame, “I heard that your family planned to marry you to Cyreus and I got…really, _really_ angry…You could imagine how much more upset I got when you found him.”

The half-blood doesn’t need a recap, says her bitter thoughts. She had already known that Oryosi had been working for Krow. For some peculiar reason, there wasn’t a single drop of satisfaction as Krow’s mouth poured out such pieces of truth—Y/N was smarter to accept his confession, not his apologies.

“When I got back to the palace, before you went to go see Oryosi yourself, I had decided to cut all the threads…I had to put Aruul and the rest of the Dogs and Hounds all under my employment. I couldn’t let you go back to being that monster, Y/N, and I couldn’t let you leave the planet.”

_Father_ , Y/N wants to whisper, but decides to let the word become nothing but a hapless thought.

“I killed the king, Y/N. I killed your father. I knew that without him in your life, there wouldn’t be anything more to come back to…that you wouldn’t have any other option than to stay with me, instead,”

**_I love you_** , he mouths.

And then, without a second thought, Y/N throws her arm forward, unleashing the tides in her hands.

  
  


『✭』

  
  


Everyone who had ever met Y/N, those who still kept their tongues after a conversation, knew that under all the loving exterior and the protective big-sibling bravado, she was an apex predator. All of the devotion and duties she had for her father was still an unkempt thing under her skin, seeping through those beaming grins and chaste smiles she sent to her siblings and everyone around her. 

Those who were perceptive enough to know the difference between patience and tolerance knew that somewhere, deep inside her, Y/N was a ticking time-bomb. Even if she never knew it herself, there would always be those who would assume the duty of preventing her from reaching such destructive capabilities. It began with her grandfather, then her father, then onto her, and it had taken only a few million years to figure out such an opaque pattern. 

Now, as fate would painfully have it, there was no need to worry about her lit fuse. There wasn’t any semblance of holding back, now—not as her appetites had this new craving. Y/N had no father, not anymore. The loyalty she had left for her king had crumbled into ash as did the place he died in. And in some, small part of her, Y/N hoped that it was painful.

Y/N also hoped that Krow was in pain, too. 

She salvaged what she could of Krow’s figure being swatted across the room by a roaring, sinuous tide, twisting and writhing with his limbs that tried to grip at the currents to soften the velocity of the brutal impact. Though it did knock a great wind from his chest, it did nothing to save his backside that came into collision with the golden throne. His spine bent awkwardly as the tide dispelled, his sopping gear sticking to his skin, while his reaction time towards another wave of water lunging close was poor. He could barely curl his hands together, putting his arms up in a guard and saved by eruptions of large, emerald crystals breaching the pavement. The spray of the sea was not nearly as violent as Y/N’s was, as Krow could feel her very rage in her water’s heat. 

“How could I be dependent on you, Krow?” 

_This isn’t right._

“You can’t protect me forever! This…this isn’t _love!_ ” 

_Nothing about this is right!_

Y/N did not relent as the bed of quartz evaded her from seeing Krow’s crouching form, still determined to break through its integrity, choosing to be ignorant of her own limits as she pushed further. Steam had begun to waft through the throne room, sweeping whimsically around the half-blood, who shut her eyes tightly to avoid being bothered. However, the room had become too hazy, devoid of any spatial clarity, where Y/N had no choice but to stop her continuous, streaming pursuit. 

Such heat created a disoriented effect in Y/N’s head, dizzied and struggling to pierce into the massive cloud as she traversed. Krow had given no indication of his whereabouts in the throne room, yet, Y/N was certain that he wouldn’t leave. She had come to the shimmering walls of crystals, eyeing narrowly at their size and swirls of pulsing energy. With a hand extending to touch its surface, her fingers splayed, there was a moment of relief as she pressed against the cooling surface, pleased by the contrast of the heated room.

There was a sound somewhere. Yet, Y/N was sure that it was her own clouded breath.

With her eyes peering deep into the glassy walls, she was suddenly blinded by an effulgence of green that shattered like a mirror. With frenzied instincts, Y/N had placed her own shell of protection between her and the blast. A shield of ice came from a solid thrust of her fist, saving her from the shards and shockwave, left abandoned by a large leap Y/N took as she had seen various wisps of energy expelled from the quartz.

He wants her to stay. He wants her to listen.

Forms of energy, controlled by Krow who had acted from behind the throne, came at Y/N akin to striking vipers. Her footwork was messy, dodging to save herself from being hit and rolling to maintain a safe distance. From her farthest periphery, still engaged with his lashing power, was Krow. He emerged from his cowardly space and sauntered closer, watching and frowning.

“You must have known, Y/N,” He strains to say through clenched jaws, “If we spent this long together, and you still had no figment of a clue, then you don’t deserve your independence…”

“What the hell are you talking about!?” Y/N yells angrily, deflecting a lash of power with her tattered vambrace, wincing at the impact.

Krow finds it easier to pour much more strength into his energy, breathing in a slow and controlled motion, while his eyes are frantic and practically glazed with reddened tears. His hand that surges warmly, tingling with amplified strength begins to curl into a firm fist—totaling every bit of himself into every hit that Y/N takes resiliently. 

“The gods were cruel to bestow the chance of marrying into your life, Y/N. But it was ruthless for me, as I was not that man.”

Y/N stills at his words for a moment, perfectly unguarded to save herself from a green scourge that cracks into her side, sending her rolling and skidding across the floor. 

Regret comes easily to her, like her blood that pours so easily on the steaming marble. Y/N has wished that she hadn’t sent everyone to the Vault, cursing herself for being so caught up in her dark reasons and stubborn pride. It takes everything within her to try and control the copper red stream, the flesh that was broken by Krow’s cruel strike was already mending itself, albeit, very slowly. Threads of pink and red spin together, weaving skin and tissue, shuddering to the sound of her thundering heart and Krow’s advancing footsteps.

“We’ve gone through so much…I’ve sacrificed so much…I’ve taken too many lives to let yours go.” Krow’s tender whispers were poisonous to her ears, becoming a mindless numbing as he heard his fingers snap together.

A bloodcurdling scream tears itself out of Y/N’s throat, moving together with the crushing pain that spreads through her wound. Everything that she tried so valiantly put together collapses again, festering in a red and green enormity that becomes an eyesore to him, finding no such strength in him to look away as his beloved writhes and curls. Her whimpers chip away at his demeanor, though he is lucky she cannot see, burrowing her head downward as she holds her grotesque, ripping injury.

“I thought we could keep doing this forever…Every day would be exactly the same. Nothing would change and nothing would keep me from you,” Krow shakes his head after listening to a particularly painful cry, “But…you’re the _Wild Star_ … _Conqueror_ …someone who was going to leave me for a universe full of nothing,”

_What would have been different now than a thousand years ago?_

Krow would have been there, regardless if she left for a planet that she conquered or one that was entirely new. She had been thinking of leaving Amis for a long time now, removing herself from her luxuries, her family, her home. There was still something in her left that longed for another adventure, what she thought would give her peace of mind—the end of her blood thirst and haunting dreams—and Y/N was certain of herself that to achieve that, she would have to leave Amis. Y/N had mulled over the possible reactions of her family, from accepting to anger, which became the primary reason why she had not left yet.

_Krow would have been with her_ , she told herself. 

As much as she wanted to say such things, she is occupied with keeping her innards intact. Krow’s power is spreading, seizing every nerve that Y/N has left to get her to remain powerless. She had found such power of his to be useful for battles, however, Y/N feels rightful to hate it as she now knows where such tormenting abilities come from.

_He’s killing me from the inside_ , Y/N breaths raggedly, _it seems like he did get some of the bitchy traits, after all._

“And, I know that even after this…even if you put me in prison…you’ll leave…”

Y/N can hear something, something in his breath that hitch. What she can make out that isn’t drawn by red and black, is the image of Krow who is crushed with tears. 

“But before you leave our world behind…”

Y/N feels a relapse in his control over her viscera, the stress on her wounds deteriorating with every word he musters out to her, and she can already feel healed by his own pain. Though the power had not left her body completely, Y/N had found a momentary strength in her biceps to jut sideways, placing yet another barrier of ice between them. Surprising even herself, rime had grown around Krow by the ankle, capturing him with a thick coat of frost. The biting sheer cold of his leg crawls quickly to his thigh makes him writhe unpleasantly, thinking quickly to kick himself away and add more distance between them.

Krow stomps and crushes the remnants of ice that is left holding him back. There is something unsettling there, Y/N sees, something that has completely devoid Krow of his former, loving self. The evil that was so present in her eyes were clear reflections, atrocious and calloused, the visage of a broken and regrettable man. The half-blood doesn’t have the heart to look away as she cuts in front of the barrier, beginning to come closer.

**_I’m sorry, Krow._ **

The unspeakable was interrupted by Krow’s wrathful words.

_“Prove to me that you don’t need me anymore.”_

Krow had detonated his entire body, riddled with his power that had expelled through the air in one, colossal shockwave. Within every ripple of green was the laces of his fury and suffering, Y/N could feel every bit of it, avoiding her instincts to absorb everything he had to give. What he didn’t already control inside of her was amplified to a much more excruciating extent. 

Her viscera did not just twist and thwart in painful circles, but carve and maim, traumatizing and crippling all that was left. Her very bones were riddled with misshapen and uneven druzy crystals, protruding and breaking through her skin, as if she had been corrupted. However, despite the pain of her rocky bones and gushing wounds, Y/N did not allow herself to stop walking.

Krow had immediately turned to offense, using the last grips of his power to slash down Y/N’s knees that opened freshly and trembled. But, she did not stop walking. Every lash that came at her, she took with pride, as well as being prideful of the tears that slipped from her cheeks, red and all.

She did not care if she was walking towards her death for she had seen that face before. Those faces—her father, Gardenia, Cyreus, her people, and so many more—had been all but strangers passing by. Looking at its face—his face—Y/N was glad that he looked as vulnerable and true as Krow did. 

For one, bitter moment, she had said her unspoken goodbyes to her siblings and friends.

As well as her mother.

Krow had kicked her down with wobbling force, somewhat leaning down with her as she came to his chest. For what he saw was not Y/N, but a monster of his own design. Such a thing should have pleased him, however, he had forgotten the pain it struck in his heart. Y/N’s eyes were once pools of stars and undiscovered shimmers, a light that could not be compared to by the sunrises and sunsets on a thousand different planets. They turned sunken and faded, calmed by her tears that he had only seen as she collapsed into his arms.

He was reluctant to catch her, bloodied and broken, the same as him. Y/N did not fight him, no, as Krow had realized, but had allowed herself to take the punishments for being who she was for the last thousands of years. He had only realized that he had stopped being the person who supported, worshiped, and tolerated every little thing she did with a smile, not as he had finished beating her in a mangled mess.

Knowing that, feeling the warm embrace and the light of his stilled presence, Y/N could say she was happy about that, too.

Y/N parted her lips, whispering out a name that had been left in the blood of history.

Y/N had said Krow’s name. His real, _actual_ name. 

_“…You don’t need me.”_

『✭』 

  
  


Norrath had been evacuated of its refugees and relocated to the Echealion, where the noblemen and women that resided within the White Hollow had also been harbored safely. They came together under the protection of the Atralis knight troops, acting like real people, a real civilization through empathic communication and sympathetic conversation. They were posted outside of the Seeing Gates to keep wanderers from entering the city of Norrath as it had been under lock down for reconstruction. The extent of the boundaries had gone as far as the Nyrriean isles, where boats filled with miscreants and shady characters had come to help their demolished port city. 

The Skaraeith siblings had done their part to assure the safety of those living in the Irie, as they no longer had Aruul Qhyros as their Khrosa. They tried appeasing the Irieth people, acting out of diplomacy as they reluctantly recounted the brutal events of the snowblight ceremony, already earning a few skeptical pairs of eyes. It wasn’t until the seventh son, Ago had come up the foundation of stairs to the Qhyros temple, assuring their people and his that under his eldest brother, Amon’s leadership, they would continue to thrive as they used to. The blood could never be washed from the Skaraeith’s hands, however, there wouldn’t be any to stain the new heirs. Though the damage that was done between the two families could never be undone, they were both sure that what the two could accomplish together would be greater. 

It took all of sunrise for the first half of Norrath to be rebuilt, and sunset for the people of the Echealion to settle back into their homes after the unfortunate events. After many hours of relentless labor, during the cool of the night, the people of Amis had attended a grand funeral for Cyreus Saeles. They had not removed the crown of storm flowers over their eyes, as the people of Norrath knew that it was the princess’s doing and show of respect as he died valiantly in battle, however, it was particularly grueling for Overon and Riva, who delivered a soft-spoken eulogy for their dearly departed son. 

Marinella was the only Amisian who did not falter into tears, as she only listened to the breeze of the sea.

The Skaraeith children were met with a few strings of harsh words from the Saeles patriarch, unable to be saved by the real person at fault of whom they cursed so viciously at. They had delivered their deepest condolences and apologies, already paying a hefty sum for the damages and an abundance of resources and a newly-shaped militia for their use as apology for such unforeseen destruction upon their city. Wordlessly, and thankfully, they accepted the gifts without a fuss. Although, they would have appreciated the company of the humans who were too busy discussing their next phase of their journey. 

And, after two days, they were called to see a particularly important matter.

Among the Norrathians who were quickly beginning to migrate back to their own, rebuilt homes, specialists had contacted the siblings to describe their findings near the cliffside of the Norrathian sea, just outside the capital. Recounting the immense amount of rubble, stone, azure, amber, and other exterior things found at the bottom of the sea, they had also told of a massive, unsettling structure. It was a tomb unlike any other; blood-red bars, thick as Cotati metal fibers, with an interior of the dark and deafening silence of the sea. 

Morok, Cervantes, Demetrius, Florentine, Yven, and Wisp had looked upon Gardenia with anger, tears, and horror. 

Despite their overwhelming feelings of pain against the woman who had begged to be saved, they had a profound stoicism that did not allow Gardenia to walk the surface among them, again. Chained or not, they couldn’t allow themselves to be in the presence of their mother who had done so much damage to their home. Taking extreme caution and complying to their reluctant empathy, they had taken Gardenia to a make-shift dungeon that had been built within the labyrinth under the capital. 

Until Raimyr was born, Morok told them, until their little sibling had come into the world, Gardenia would remain in this infernal place. 

Though they questioned the methods of Gardenia’s strict imprisonment, they were understanding enough to tolerate those circumstances for their unborn sibling. They did not doubt the straining relationship it would have on them to be with Raimyr, as their eldest sister had done the same to them, loving and caring despite who she was, despite her true lineage. And so, with heavy hearts, they awaited the birth of Raimyr.

They remembered coming out of the Vault with the three humans. Wisp and Yven were the only two of the siblings who were eased and innocently curious of their company, asking them many questions about Earth and their lives as humans. They could easily decipher that it was such an odd thing—beings who looked and acted like children in front of people who looked like adults, who were in fact, younger than them—keeping that thematic of being odd and otherworldly. Wisp seemed to be fond of Steve the most, comparing their likeness for being a soldier, the act of being brave and courageous, and their similar blonde hair. 

Although, the older few were not so keen on the company of such single-minded mortals. Even as Tony’s attempts at small-talk seemed to keep Morok from breaking down into boredom or fear, the fiery prince kept his compliments and responses stiff and short. Cervantes was, naturally, the same; unwilling to respond to Natasha Romanoff who complimented his abilities that he used so absentmindedly. The triplets were already a troubled few, ultimately keeping to themselves, praying for the safety of their dear sister. 

They could barely remember being at their sister’s bedside together, as they would often slip in and out of sleep as the later hours passed by. The light of the sun, moon, and stars had never looked so faint, Steve could remember hearing Natasha say, curiously wondering if Y/N’s weakened psyche was any similar to fading illuminance. The Skaraeith siblings seemed to think so, losing hope as the end of the second night had passed.

The people of Amis, however, did not have as much patience as the siblings. They had spoken against their protocols in regards to their safety, wondering if there was even a sliver of a chance that their eldest princess would be alive and well enough to mend the damages that were done. They were beginning to stand against the lesser rule of the siblings, who were already earning jaundice and impatient words from their advisors.

“Your sister is strong,” They remember Steve saying, “She can make it.”

“That’s right. She’ll be up and about before you know it.” Tony Stark had also chimed, also earning a sympathetic, agreeing nod from Natasha.

“She would never let anyone hurt you.”

They believed it, rightfully so, as they had begun to think of their individual times with Y/N during their childhood. 

Morok remembered his first time hunting, almost being mauled by a pack of Terius wolves, yet saved when Y/N came to his rescue. Cervantes thought back to when he trained so relentlessly, once using his powers to perform a particularly dangerous move and slipping, almost hurting himself had it not been for Y/N who caught him at the last second. The triplets had their moments, too, remembering when Y/N had scared away a group of bullies, throwing long strings of curses at them. 

For Wisp, of which he proudly considers to be Y/N’s favorite, he thought of when he first remembered Y/N. He remembers her gentle touch as she held him in her arms for the first time, her loving smile, and the generous affectionate kisses she placed on his head just for making a bubbly laugh.

The Skaraeith children had looked upon Y/N with heartbreak and anguish as she laid in her bed.

The road to recovery would not be as kind as the last, the healers had told them, pointing out the various deep wounds and bits of bloodied crystals that littered her body so hideously. When the humans had come with them to see her for the first time, they had lowered their heads in sadness for the Amisian. Though the siblings knew that they had not known each other for long, they understood that Y/N had helped them as much as they helped her—a mutual respect that suddenly stretched farther as they saw her, wounded.

We should have been there, all of their faces clearly said, before turning into pure anger as they had come to realize that they had heard nothing of the whereabouts of Krow Vulnir. 

Y/N would have never told them, in complete honesty. She wouldn’t have it in herself to describe how Krow had imprisoned himself in a giant crystal inside the Ascension tower, the highest and impassable point of the Echealion palace. The Atralis knights that had come from the Seeing Gates after their heart wrenching battle had found them in Y/N’s quarters, finding the princess in the river of her room, soaked off water and blood. They had taken her to the infirmary wing, chipping and throwing away the crystal bits that poked through her wounds and bare flesh, creating more and lesser minor wounds than what she had already suffered, and luckily, had not found Krow. 

Y/N had prayed that they never will. Not until she got back, at least.

  
  


『✭』 

  
  


Truthfully, Tony Stark didn’t want to leave this beautiful planet. 

He had seen many breathtaking scenic views in his time, primarily during his younger days when he was not so busy with his industry and saving the world. One of his favored places was Messina, having a sense of tranquility for the Camposanto and its calming views. However, the storm flowers that grew along the walls of the broken Norrathian palace alone had bested all others. There were things here that could not be accomplished on Earth, not even by him, as one of Earth’s Greatest Minds. Tony had his things packed in a compartment box, filled with clothes, tool storages, and a few pieces of Morok Skaraeith’s favorite tarts in saran wrap. Packing was extraordinarily different after staying at another planet than another country’s hotel—but he didn’t complain. 

In fact, Tony was somewhat pleased with the experience, even going as far to admit that he would miss it. 

The nights were surprisingly merciful to him. Tony’s tossing and turning that was accompanied by perturbing images had been slowed and less of a frequent bother. He was surprised after the first night that he didn’t find himself clutching on a pillow or rising from the floor. The gold that surrounded him seemed to have such a superior effect, Tony was astounded by the comparisons of royalty to intelligent. 

For a moment, Tony felt sympathy for the Amisian princess.

He was glad to know that although their time on Amis was over, Y/N would be the one to bid them goodbye.

“You know, in most cases, people would shed a tear or two after making some friends and having to leave them.” 

Tossing yet another wrapped sweet into his compartment box, Tony let out a short scoff as he listened to the useless sympathetic advice from Steve who had leaned against the door frame. Despite not always seeing eye-to-eye, Tony felt that what he said was true. Although, he wanted to savor a few more moments of saving face.

“Did you?” Tony retaliates teasingly, “If you did bawl your eyes out, which I know you didn’t, I’d love to punch your stinking gut for coming out of your breakdown so pretty and clean.”

Steve pushed himself from the frame of the vacant guest room of the palace, tracing along the inlay of gold and silver a few strokes more while his smile creeped so easily along his lips. A laugh was even spared, go-figure.

“Y’know, some part of me wants to stay and tell Fury to stick that million dollar rocket that brought us here up his stubborn ass…” Tony paused, shaking his head, “But, I’m still not comfortable with them. I’m still not used to the fact that their aliens. So, forgive me if I don’t have any tears to spare. I think I shed most of it after New York.”

Although he doesn’t press further, Steve feels somewhat bitter with Tony’s response. He knows how hard it has been since that awful invasion, what he went through to even get back to the tower that night. He was still fumbling and screaming, shaking and muttering. It was hard to watch, but Steve was glad Tony had voiced so much during his time here. 

Steve moves out of the way as Tony picks up his compartment, leaving no trace of his human tendencies behind in the golden room. Seeing it now, Steve faintly wonders what it took to make it—the room, the palace, the planet—everything. For a place that remained longer than the Earth, the phrase ‘paid in blood’ sends a terrible chill down his spine. Wordlessly, he follows behind Tony as they approach Natasha at the end of the corridor, who already had her own neatly-packed compartment box in her hands.

“That Wisp kid is sure gonna miss you the most.” Natasha says lightly, a smirking with affection as she remembers the sniffling Amisian, “Even though he’s not human and is definitely older than all of us combined, he still acts like a human kid meeting his hero.”

_America’s Golden Boy,_ Natasha adds. Tony holds the breath in his throat to prevent him from chuckling. Although, the upturn at the corners of his lips lets Steve know that he’s very amused. Steve begins a faint nod, his mind adrift back on the times whenever he had met fans and admirers across the world—finding it endearing that others here were like that, too. Miles and miles away from Earth.

“I’m sure we’ll meet again someday. Who knows? The next time we see each other, he could be bigger and stronger than me.” 

Natasha instantly grimaces at the thought, shuddering against Steve as he rolls his eyes with a sigh.

“It depends if Y/N manages to cut back on his sweets. He eats a lot of them, just watching him scarf down a slice of cake last night still makes my jaw hurt.”

“Yes, _that’s_ why your jaw hurts.” Tony mutters under his breath before sputtering in pain as Natasha slams her elbow into his ribs, “Come on! You can’t tell me that you haven’t had any thoughts after I told you about that 80’s film I watched!” 

Y/N followed the guffawing laughter that ricocheted the walls of the corridor. Taking a mere glance at the open sceneries of the outside, the snowblight was gentler in its cold. The biting at her reddened nose and cheeks were all but a numbing stimulus, more entranced by the warm clouds that fills the air as she chuckles when she sees the humans. The afternoon was quiet and serene, a rare yet pleasant change for Y/N after going through such horrendous times. 

Her bones still creaked in her knees when she ambled forward. What was bandaged and mended could not be fully healed, she was told from the healers. There was a resilient emotional trauma that still lingered in every little movement, and Y/N would keep quiet about how tired of it she was. The more she came closer to them, the more the fog of her memories began to clear.

She thought of her father first. The funeral was private, what he would have wanted despite being such an authoritative figure like himself. The pyre was made from his heir, and Y/N could not have been prouder of her brother. Morok silently trudged through the snow, a weak flame hovering just above his palm that flickered against the wood, silver, and gold inlay of his father’s corpse and casket. He was almost startled by how quickly the fire swallowed him up. Wisp had to pull him back when the flames were getting too big, despite how easily Morok could control it, concerned as the prince did nothing but stare and weep.

Y/N stood at the back of her siblings, listening to their sniffling and sobbing. Yven, the most vulnerable of the siblings, had immediately crumpled to the ground and into Y/N’s arms. She knew that it took everything within Yven not to put out the fire, her fingers tucked into her pale fists that kept her from putting out the flames with growing flowers. Wisp had come to comfort his sisters, followed by the other two triplets and Cervantes. Morok had been the last, quietly slumped against Y/N’s shoulder as she held them all.

_This was the most peace any of them had ever gotten from their father_ , Y/N thinks quietly.

Gardenia was the second person she thought of, remembering their last meeting within the Norrathian prison. Behind those steel bars was the figure of a defeated woman, whereas Y/N felt no empathy towards. With arms crossed, Y/N listed the charges against her motionless step-mother, reading out all of her sibling’s final words and refrained herself from saying her’s. When she told Gardenia of the pyre, Y/N could have sworn that she saw a glimmer in those sunken, white eyes. She chose not to question it, instead, asking what the connection was between her and Krow.

_An estranged son_ , Y/N’s back shivers when she hears Gardenia’s hoarse and rasping voice, a broken form of what was once so sickly serene, _I had him long ago._

It made sense.

_Eremedes_ , Gardenia whispered before falling into a deep slumber.

Y/N says her goodbyes, eyes lingering on Gardenia’s stomach.

Krow was the last person, the only one who seemed to have never left her mind since the beginning. Y/N is torn between entering the Ascension tower or not, wondering what would become of herself if she said her farewells to him. It took a few trails of convincing from Wisp, who wanted to see him, too. He opted to watch over him while Y/N was gone, adding more salt into the wound as she remembered his words. 

_He was right_ , Y/N thought sadly, _she was going to leave whether he was defeated or not._

A lock made from Y/N’s blood was easily destroyed by her hands, and she immediately had trouble trying to open the door of the tower. Her fingers splayed against the iron and gold, pushing with weak strength while she made her slowed movements at the ends of her heels. Finally coming to, Y/N’s breath was filched from her chest as she saw him; entombed by a bed of crystals of a spectacular size. 

In the middle, within the tallest shard of all, was Krow, motionless and slumbering. 

Y/N kept her words brief and short, trying to keep herself from crying as she profusely apologized. Her bundled words became a spilling pour, listing away of the things she had done wrong to him, naming the ways she had caused him and others pain, wondering if there was any chance of them being how they used to be after everything was mended. 

Her prayers and apologies were all said and forgotten by the half-blood.

However, as she clutches the smooth surface of the crystal, where his hand is just a distance away, Y/N weeps.

_I’m sorry. I love you. Thank you._

All have different meanings.

The broken princess was found by her siblings who had come to tell her that the humans were leaving.

Yes, these past few days were the worst of all in her many years of living. 

“Ready to go?” Y/N asks quickly to shut away those horrible thoughts, showing what was a beaming grin, to the best of her ability.

Surely enough, they had been easily fooled.

“Yes, definitely,” Steve says, gathering his things before the group begin to make their way to the hangar, “We really must thank you for escorting us back to Earth. And apologize for…y’know…crashing your home with those pods that were supposed to bring us back.”

“You’re very welcome. Although, keep in mind, the next time you come here, you might want to give me a heads-up so you have diplomatic clearance and enter the planet safely. I’d rather not have you escorted by guards while in chains.”

“Duly noted.”

  
  


『✭』 

  
  


_The Golden Comet_ is an aircraft favored by the Wild Star. 

The ship is heavily armed and generously spacious, a wide variety of quarters that cater to the privacy of those on-board. Tony makes himself comfortable in the largest suite, graciously and bitterly given to by Y/N who opts to stay in the pilot’s seat. Discussing the set of rules on her ship was easy enough as the group wanted nothing more than to laze around and sleep during their voyage, leaving Y/N to have the best job of all; flying them home.

She trusts herself not to get too eager in the experience, thrilled to finally sit in a place where she managed absolute control. The view of stars that were singing her name was only a small part of her excitement, thrilled to even fasten herself on the seat with her hands lingering readily near the ignitions and controls. She remembers each and every little detail of her own ship, how much strength she must apply to the core panel, how fidgety the seat could get if she bent her back the wrong way, every minor and major thing all comes to her head in one fell swoop. 

Y/N has no trouble penetrating the nose of her ship outside of the atmosphere, ecstatic as the veil of stars fills every inch of the observation deck. Lights and blooming colors spin and shudder with the movements of the Golden Comet, gliding with ease as they approach closer towards the void of the unknown. Y/N switches gears with a shift of her foot, turning into the direction of Terra, as directed from the coordinates panel to her right. Blinking numbers and letters are all but meaningless in that particular moment, her eyes fading into what she had been missing for a great millennia. 

The image of Amis, her home, is nothing but yet another planet sinking into the inky black distance, and Y/N is finally at peace. The smile of the Wild Star leaves an impression into space as she makes way for Earth, into what most would describe as a trail of light. 

_Y/N Skaraeith leaves Amis and does not look back._


	16. Post-Credits「1」- The End of the Beginning

## 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬

It had been a full day of flying with no planet in sight. The road back to Earth was filled with murmuring sleeps, long talks about the differences between human life and aliens, and the occasional buzzing of music from small contraptions with strings. Steve held his curiosities in his mouth, fearful that he might prod into a topic that none of them wanted to discuss, whether it’d be times of battle or affiliations. On the tip of his tongue, stiff even as Steve wandered through a dreamless sleep, were words that could have been said to the Amisian girl.

She was a quiet one, despite all that she had been through. This was a time of grieving after all, he understood, marveling at her smiles that she managed to give them as she passed around portions of dinner. He watched her movements that glided slowly across various panels and floorboards of the ship, every fickle thing that seemed to want to catch her slip up and break down. He instantly bites down on his caring and protective nature, feeling spite in his own tendencies.

  
  


_Y/N needed space_ , Steve snapped at himself.

  
  


“I’ll be back with a flask of water. Seems like your friend there has a hard time eating the fire-snap porridge.” The Amisian points amusingly towards Tony who is clutching his tongue, face puckered red and sweating, rolling from his seat and onto the floor to take a breather.

Steve holds in a chuckle and nods as she excuses herself, eyes taken from her retreating form and to Natasha and Tony. Romanoff chews mindlessly at the red chunks in the auburn liquid, stirring her spoon slowly in the mixture. Steve is already concerned.

“Something on your mind?”

It takes a few seconds for Natasha’s eyes to even lift, but is thankful for his unwavering patience. 

“I had a hard time sleeping,” She explains, dropping her spoon and folds her arms, “Had some kind of dream…a nightmare? I don’t know…”

“Wanna talk about it?” Steve asks gently, a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Something different constricts Natasha’s face, something that could be akin to Tony whenever he had his own night terrors. Unfortunately, it was all insoluble as the man himself could not refute. Her lips slants while it pries open, her eyes adrift as if she’s looking back into her own mind. 

“I remember floating, I guess. I was in the air or something…or in water. At first, everything was really calm but then a flash of light just slaps me across the face. Then, I’m drowning— _er_ —falling. I don’t know I just… _sink_ ,”

Steve listens attentively, beginning to trace small, soothing circles along the arch of her back as she struggles to continue.

“And then, I’m somewhere dark…or I _see_ _something_ dark. Like everything is moving and shaking and I got really scared. This black mass just starts coming after me. Before it catches me, I just wake up in cold sweat.”

“Jesus, Nat. That sounds terrifying.” His voice somehow shifts like the colder atmosphere.

“I know.” She mumbles, putting her head in her hands, raking her fingers through her hair.

“Don’t worry about it, okay? It’s just a—“

_“_ — _Here you go.”_

  
  


There’s light behind her and all is dark, and Steve’s heart drops to his stomach. When Y/N returns, she dips smoothly to come down to Tony, holding the procured flask of water that he scrambled to drink so eagerly. He swallows everything without a second thought. The lighting is better now as she comes to sit next to them, smiling comfortingly, and it doesn’t take a second to notice the change in the room—the unease in Steve and Natasha.

  
  


“Is something wrong?” She asks with a tender voice.

  
  


Before Steve Rogers lets those unresolved questions slip from his tongue, he sees that Natasha has already moved on from the matter. He is unsettled as she puts the filled spoon to her mouth with trembling hands, eyes indifferent and away from all three of them.

  
  


_Give her some space_ , he thinks again, _she needs space._

  
  


“No, nothing’s wrong.” Steve says with a smile.

  
  
  


* * *

* * *

**[Y/N] will return.**

* * *


	17. Trail of Stardust「16」

## 𝐇𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐋𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐬

Humans were so… _interesting_. 

They required so many needless little things, creatures to strange habits, and told stranger jokes. Like; what’s the purpose of three bottles of hair and body soap? Why not just enchant them into a single bottle while still containing all three separate functions? What is _shampoo_ and _conditioner?_ Is that what they’re called? Y/N is easily read when Natasha smacks the bottles from her hands when she tries to combine the two substances, half-expecting some form of a chemical combustion. The only inflicted pain was not a scorched face dark with smoke, but her wrist red and sore even after being scrubbed and soaked. Needless to say, it had been the most terrifying and anxious bath she’d ever experienced. 

They talked of needless things, conferencing with each other between leisurely activities and what convincing reason they could draw up for coming back to Earth in such a fashion. Y/N mostly stayed quiet during those meetings, dawdling silently and alone on what she would say herself to the humans’ superiors. They didn’t sound like the friendliest of people, and Y/N had remembered that humans were fickle and timid creatures, a species that did not dare to step one toe out of line, fearful of their own confusion. Standing by for validation, even when the meetings didn’t end with a promising outcome, was the only way to pass the time.

Grey Blood was adamant that he would spread his wings just as Y/N did, deciding to part from his brothers and sisters for their journey and did what he could to protect those aboard the Golden Comet. He took fondly to the company of humans, but found that he was just as clueless of them as Y/N was. Amisians had distinct characteristics from humans, down from their heels to the roots of their hair. They moved differently, too; rugged and careful, like every step counted. To Y/N, it was true, they had a shorter lifespan than other beings, whereas Y/N had lived for a much longer time. Wisdom doesn’t come easily to her anymore, and she worries about positivity.

Stars came and went as colored beacons behind a wall of glass and Y/N could not get enough of it. Any increment of light was halcyon and Y/N was desperate for any other form of enjoyment than the twinkling void of lights. It was a problem since childhood, and there was no sign of it stopping even if she flew throughout the universe countless times. This lofty ambition; wanting to find a new place to call home made Y/N feel sick to her stomach. As she sat at the edge of her cot, she rested her trembling palm across her abdomen, tired of feeling it twist and coil. She couldn’t escape that restless feeling, frowning behind the back of her hand whenever she tried to purge it out.

Natasha came to her once, whispering sweet nothings to help soothe her mind rather than the awful abyss of her stomach. Although she assured the human that she was fine and that the malady was just an _‘amisian problem’_ , Natasha asserted herself and became a friend with meager will.

And for that, Y/N couldn’t have been more grateful towards the human.

“You feeling up for a spar? Or do you still feel like laying on your ass all day again?” 

Natasha brandished her own fist, pounding it firmly against her other palm. She looked like she was gonna kill someone—as she was trained to do. The two made it a rule not to elaborate on the darker parts of their training, not verbally anyway. As Romanoff came leaning against the door frame of Y/N’s quarters, that biting grin curling against her lip, Y/N held the strongest urge not to launch her pillow in her face and deliver a feint. The still air as she stood seemed woozy as Y/N lifted herself from the cot, giving a prolonged stretch out her back before cocking a brow.

“Yeah, I’m a little here and there,” Y/N muttered before grabbing her pair of vambraces, slipping them on with a flex of her fingers, “What’s the occasion?”

“I’d just like to see the difference between a trained assassin and a warrior princess who is literally millions of years old. I’m betting that it kinda cuts close.”

Her voice sounded innocent, but Y/N knew it was strung with all kinds of mischief, giving a sly nod.

“I think so, too,” A ghost of a laugh slipped from her lips, sending a dismissive hand to Natasha, “I’ll meet you in the armory in five.” 

With a wink, the human sauntered her way down to the lower floor of the Golden Comet, determined to take her time. Y/N settled uncomfortably with the short silence, suddenly broody as she slipped on the rest of her training gear under her casual attire. Smartly, she had chosen the smallest quarters and took the least amount of luggage for the journey. Half of her wanted the trip to be short and memorable, while the other half wanted to linger and actually interact with humans. That need was there again, growing in her and becoming ever-more fierce. 

She shook her head determinedly, trudging in her boots to spar with Natasha.

The Golden Comet was composed of three floors. As a heavy cruiser ship, it had come equipped with a valiant arsenal, two common-rooms, a main server room, a med bay, several livings quarters, and a canteen—where Tony unsurprisingly spent most of his time, gorging on whatever space-snacks he could find. The first week had come and gone during their journey back to Earth, and Y/N inwardly wondered how much longer the trip would last. As she peeled back the layers of differences between Amisians and Terrans, she was getting anxious of any molecular movement she would do that would make her appear threatening. 

_Be smart about this_ , Y/N had reminded herself every-hour or so, _they won’t do anything unless you do._

There were only hints and whispers, vague mentions about what tragedy occurred in a city called New York during casual conversations. Some guy, _‘Reindeer Games’_ as Tony called him, had sicced his aliens on them and their team the Avengers, an interesting name, admittedly. Y/N didn’t judge and had no real reason to ask questions, so she didn’t, ignoring her morbid curiosities. 

_‘New York’_ was a touchy subject, just like how the _‘Eidolon’_ was for her.

Y/N pushed through the twin iron doors and concealed her pain with an eager smile, finding Natasha who kept up with her confidence. She tied her auburn hair in a kempt braid, and Y/N fastened her own with a band. She told herself not to fight at all, experiencing the remnants of fatigue that seized her body once she awoke the morning after her battle against Gardenia and Krow, but found some form of will that told her to be strong and maintain her valor before she crossed into the world of humans. She was the face of everything they didn’t know, in a way, a visitor that tries to tip the scales in each other’s favor and balance out their differences. 

Y/N places herself at the opposite end of the mat, trying her best to look enthused.

“Go easy on me, yeah?” 

Natasha rolls her shoulders, relishing in the cracks that come.

“Hell no. I’ve been wanting to kick your ass all week.”

They took their stance—knees low and arms up—and immediately conflicted with the first move. Y/N is met with Natasha’s leg first and goes to intercept it with the back of her bicep. She is a fast opponent and is definitely frustrating to read, unpredictably agile for a human. With a jutting arm forward, Y/N grips firmly at her thigh, eager to land a swing at her lower-ribcage. But she stumbles violently as Natasha hooks one thigh over the other, hoisting and twisting herself around Y/N’s neck. Her own fist is caught under Natasha’s shoulder, thwarted backwards and threatened to break, and all Y/N could make out was a single wince.

Yes, she was incredibly unpredictable.

They both suffer a tumble across the mat, with Natasha on her side, still wrapped around Y/N’s neck who arches on her back. Blood rushes to her temples and there is little to no oxygen traveling through her, her veins swollen and throbbing as her neurons are firing alert signals, trying to get a hold of her dormant fighting instincts. Y/N takes what she can of the air, lungs tight and ragged from the pressure of Natasha’s calf before launching herself up on her own. Her spine takes the terrible, rocketing pain that hauls Natasha forward, the semblance of Amisian strength was lost on her for a moment. 

Romanoff is torn between breathing and yelling, struggling to maintain a firm grip of the mat as she slides and rolls across the cushioned floor. There was some restraint on both ends, they can see, but they were reluctant to show their true berserk power over each other, even if this wasn’t a real match. Natasha makes the second advance, flipping herself upwards and deflects what she can of Y/N’s wild kicks. She pushes herself up and goes through a stagger, stepping up Y/N’s knee as she stands and lands an upraised knee under Y/N’s chin.

_Is that blood?_ Y/N questions herself, gripping the nape of Natasha’s neck as she spins and throws her down, running her tongue along her top row of her teeth, _yeah, that’s blood._

Natasha’s cheek is rooted to the mat and Y/N’s hand is planted onto the human’s back. They don’t move for a second, allowing the other to catch their breath and blow the loose stray hairs from their red faces. 

“Your face is almost as red as your hair.” Y/N chuckles tightly, waylaid to finish when Natasha suddenly curls her body backwards and folds her leg over Y/N’s forearm, twisting it, turning herself over.

“Thanks,” Natasha sputters coherently from exertion, dislodges herself away from the hissing Amisian, “That is why shampoo and conditioner need to be separated. Different functions with a single purpose.”

Y/N presses the pads of her fingers firmly against the strained part of her forearm, rolling it valiantly before lifting it to intercept Natasha’s fist. She is somewhat thwarted from the conversation in the middle of the fight, something that was a rare occurrence but strangely never complained towards. It happened during one of her first battles, the war of _Adela_ , right before she skewered a soldier’s eye through the back of their skull—going on and on about how he had made a mistake and how he begged for his life—Y/N remembered being still in that moment of silence afterward. 

“Is that so?” Y/N throws away Natasha’s arm, landing a solid blow to her kidney, “The purpose is clean and shiny hair?”

“Clean, shiny, and _perfect_ hair!” Though the pain in her voice is opaque, the smile still lingers; a feat that Y/N decides to admire before rising up with a violent lunge of her knee, adding yet more pressure to the abdomen.

_Humans are not weak,_ Y/N learned as she dwindles with the pain in various blooming spots across her body, in fact, they are far from it. That fact is both encouraging and terrifying at the same time, and the half-blood admits to feeling worried about her own self-being should she cross against this peculiar species. They were once single-minded and couldn’t even hold a rock right, the last time she encountered them, and seeing just how much they progressed; speaking on their own, fighting on their own, getting to Amis on their own, Y/N found herself wanting safety when she got to Earth.

Y/N breathes for good measure as she holds her arms against Natasha’s, who is fighting against her bare Amisian strength that the former tries to refuse. This was supposed to be a fair fight, but what defines it as _fair?_ Was it fair if she was as strong as a human? Or was it fair if she fought truly as an Amisian? Once again, her stomach stirs, rampaging blindly against her blood vessels that fuel with something else, something different other than rage and fatigue. It follows her down to the bones and travels up the electric signals in her brain, firing and kindling at something that Y/N is completely against—but she uses anyway.

After blinking only once, Natasha’s arms are suddenly open at the sides, her entire spine curving backwards and staggering trying to get back a proper stance. But Y/N is faster, hysterically and unbelievably faster, lunging an open hand forward and yanks the human by the neck, stringing her up in the air and feels the violent difference in her palm. Humans were just like any other opponent, Y/N notes; they struggle the same, writhe the same, and fear the same. Their faces turn a similar red and their tongues come rolling out of their lips in an attempt to lick up any denied air.

Y/N tightens her fist.

They _bleed_ the same.

_“Y-Y/N…”_

That thing deep inside her is regaining force now, and Y/N is terrified of it.

_“Y/N….”_

Make it stop. It hurts. It doesn’t… _it doesn’t feel right at all._

  
  


**_“Y/N!”_ **

  
  


The other humans had restrained her, tackling full force to the ground and making her drop Natasha. Y/N still feels the pulse at the base of her index finger, frustrated of not procuring any relief from it. Tony is hovering on top of her, both hands at her wrists while he’s shouting at her, angry and worried—the visage of true alienation. He’s not angry at either of them; he’s just confused. Y/N blinks away a stray tear, trying to shake what’s left of the damp streak before Tony wipes it away. It is the harshest form of intimacy, but Y/N can’t pace her mind to shake it away. She rolls her head from him to the other side of the mat, finding Natasha with Steve, who props her up and pats her back as she coughs and gasps for air.

Tony stays where he is the entire time, above Y/N while maintaining a safe distance and closely secure proximity. He tries to whisper things, but Y/N’s mind is swimming blindly. The thing in her stomach is thrashing and shivering under Tony’s knee that traps them, and Y/N couldn’t be anymore grateful. Once Natasha is taken to the med bay, Tony shoves himself upward and brings Y/N with him. He tries his best to keep his movements from trembling, but Y/N can feel the slightest tremors under his fingers when he grabs her wrist.

“What the hell was that?” His voice is pulsing and fogged, but Y/N can just barely manage to hear him.

“I-I…I don’t…I don’t know.”

_“Bullshit,”_ He snaps quietly, “You were practically strangling Natasha, lifting her up like she didn’t weigh a thing with your hand around her neck, squeezing the life out of her—“

“—I’m sorry that I hurt her, I didn’t even know what I was doing.” Rancor seeps into her voice now, and Tony was having none of it.

“Figure it out. I can’t vouch for you if this happens again.”

Y/N sees some part of herself in Tony, storming away for the safety of others. 

Darkness fills in the silence with dread, and Y/N corrects herself; humans were not so interesting. They were just so scared. 

  
  


『✭』 

  
  
  


Natasha spent two days in the medical bay, resting in bed while listening to old tunes on Steve’s iPod, bandages coiled around her neck. Whenever Y/N saw them, she couldn’t shake away the memory of her hand being there, shuddering brokenly and ashamed that such a thing transpired—especially out of her control. Y/N was ensnared by the weight of her guilt; she stopped coming to the main deck to check on their coordinate progression, she hadn’t come to the canteen for dinners, instead emerging whenever everyone else went to sleep, and stayed at Natasha’s bedside while she slept. 

She told unheard apologies, stories of her times in battle, and the concern for that unknown thing wandering around deep inside her. She said she feared it, and she truly does, but there were some macabre thoughts that came with it; wanting to understand it so that she could use it properly. Controlling herself, however, gripping herself to the reality of the situation, Y/N decides never to use it again. Natasha had almost caught her leaving once, but didn’t bring it up once she actually visited when she was awake.

Y/N was a timid creature, in truth. A passive being with some unknown dark hindrance, trying desperately to keep it from reaching to her, if it hadn’t done so already. Natasha saw it through those strange eyes she had, twinkling like dull stars whenever she made some attempt of a joke, and ultimately failed and only laughed at herself. She was guilty and wracked with shame, but Natasha reminded herself that she was talking to an adult.

She would apologize one way or the other.

Natasha came out of her room during the final length of their flight, eager to go back home and down to watch the ship penetrate their planet’s stratosphere. Y/N had said that it was quite the blinding and powerful experience to witness, like they were a comet itself. She was almost fond of the idea, before realizing that Y/N wouldn’t want to manually drive the ship herself—not wanting to face the others. As best as she could, Romanoff couldn’t assure the resolve between Steve and Tony. Surprisingly, Steve was stubborn on keeping a keen eye on Y/N should another incident occur again, and unsurprisingly Tony was on his side.

So, in silence, Natasha seated herself in the main deck with Steve and Tony, watching as they finally returned home on planet Earth. She had found the formations of clouds harsh against her eyes, batting her lashes rapidly and veered her head away to Grey Blood who had snuggled up atop her crossed thighs. The beast stirred indifferently, surprisingly maintaining his sleep alongside the entire eruptions of turbulence that plagued the ship for a good five minutes. Steve couldn’t keep his dinner down and ended up hurling in a stray bag, an event that was unforgettable to an ecstatic and disgusted Tony.

“I knew it!” Tony swallowed down his own portion of bile, “I knew he’d puke onboard!”

It seemed like years ago when Tony made that promise, but to Natasha who rolled her eyes with a groan, frankly, it hadn’t been long enough.

The ship’s automated maneuvering was impressive, finally breaking through the veil of blue and white and entered the fields of greens and brown, guiding through the many acres and mountain ranges safely and smoothly across the countryside of New York, their miens morphing quickly once they reached the cities, crossing over the expanse of _Brooklyn_. Buildings looked so small from up here, Natasha observed, shifting what she could of her sore neck to see the stretch of the eastern river of _Manhattan. The Avengers Tower_ was not difficult to spot from their distance, reaching the _‘big, ugly’_ building as many refuted, and perched roughly atop Stark’s landing gear. The cruiser was just barely big enough to fit itself along the platform, and the humans could see the commotion that had erupted upon their dramatically golden arrival.

From the back of the ship, Y/N’s heart thrummed at the sight of New York from behind the glass, already enthralled by its redolence compared to the Echealion.

Tony grabbed his luggage from between his legs before rushing forward to press his palm against the main panel, triggering the opening of the exit hatch. He practically skipped out of the Golden Comet, breathing in the extricate air of the city before met with the barrels of guns from armed S.H.I.E.L.D agents. He staggered upon the encounter, putting his arms up and threw his head back in a silent plea for Steve, who shortly followed after.

“Whoa!” Steve came to Tony’s side, his hands up, “We’ve just got back—“

“—We know, we need to go through standard procedure,” One of the men waylaid Steve’s explanation, “Are you carrying any alien explosives or weaponry affiliated with unearthly technologies?”

“No, we’re not,” Natasha calls from the opening of the ship, stepping down the flight of steps with half a glare, “We’re clean. We don’t have anything _otherworldly_ on us. Now, put those down before Fury sees this. We’ve had a long flight and our return time was delayed. I think he’ll be concerned about our safety more than yours.” 

There was hesitance, but the gunned agents complied, turning the noses of their weapons down. Before there was any semblance for a breath of relief, their weapons pointed back up again. They didn’t have a chance to bark out their commands, bewildered as they noticed that the guns weren’t pointed at them; but at _Y/N._ She made the sheepish mistake of peeking her head out of the opening of the ship without them, Grey Blood mimicking her movements and perched above her shoulder. When they saw the unearthly creature, there was a resonance of guns being loaded. Instinctively, Natasha threw her hands up again, shoving herself between the aim and the target.

“Hey! Relax! She’s with us, too!”

“Any unauthorized alien lifeforms is to be subjected to sterilization and evaluation under S.H.I.E.L.D protocol. She could be lethal or an ally with the perpetrator behind the 2012 attack. You can’t talk us out of this one.”

“She’s not going to cause harm to anyone! If anything she saved us! She helped us get back here in one piece!” Steve’s voice slices through the thick tension.

There is shuffling behind the row of S.H.I.E.L.D operatives and Y/N is no longer on her guard. Grey Blood isn’t quite threatened but is immensely hostile towards those who intend to harm his companion, a ferocious growl echoing throughout the innards of the hollow ship. The men stiffen when they hear the beast, watching cautiously when Y/N brings a gentle palm to clamp around Grey Blood’s snout, shushing him calmly to appease her own safety.

“It’s true,” The sound of Y/N’s unknown accent puzzles them for a second, “We’ve all returned in one piece. We’re safe. I’m… _safe.”_

_Leaving everything from her world behind for a universe full of nothing._

Now, she was starting to get it.

_“One piece, huh? Then, might I ask what happened to our agent Romanoff?”_

There was a new voice this time, unsettled and cold, Y/N shivered slightly upon hearing such an authoritative figure. He emerged like one, too, as if like royalty. The men parted in half to make room for the humans’ superior who sauntered coolly, arms pressed behind his back, dark-skinned, and an eye-patch that sparked strong morbid curiosities. Dressed to the nines in leather and black, Y/N felt below this human for a moment, a prey amidst the presence of a stalking predator. She could only roll her shoulders, bringing her hands up with her, wiggling her fingers in some sort of pathetic form of greeting. That seemed innocent and harmless enough for them, _right?_

“A minor…incident and _hopefully_ …it won’t happen again.” 

The man who controlled these S.H.I.E.L.D. men heeded his unspoken commands of marching forward and bring her down to meet him, eye to eye…or eyes to _eye_. Y/N lets her wrists seize by these unknown agents, practically dragging her by the heels across the stairwell of the hatch and up to their director. Grey Blood wisely stayed tucked protectively at the nape of her neck, his tail curled around her stiff shoulders while his wings stayed fastened into her hair. He did not show a lick of friendliness, and was even more intimidating up close. 

“So…you are the unprecedented thing,”

_Huh?_

“You sent out a distress signal. Multiple colors, flashing on a little planet. Gave us quite the scare. I had to cancel my afternoon meetings. Just for you.”

Her chest stirred, and Y/N found the ends of boldness that left the tip of her tongue.

“Well, I’m flattered. It’s not every day we extraterrestrial beings are visited by species like…yourself,” Y/N blinks dully at the ghost of a smile that the director gives, “Those lights? They were fireworks. We were celebrating and there was nothing of the consequence. Sorry to say, but you made the trip for nothing.”

Before there is a rebuttal, something along the lines of _‘well, something must have happened because you’re all late’,_ Tony moves forward, uprooting himself to plant firmly beside Y/N. She is stunned by his form of bravery against this man, but chooses to remain silent and doesn’t come between them.

“Listen, Fury, we’ve got a lot to talk about. Okay? We get it. But right now, we need some real non-space food in our systems, sleep on an actual bed instead of a cot, and I don’t know…a bathroom break?” Tony ignores the stern glare thrown his way, his hands still upwards defensively, “We’ll hold a conference about this. I’ll show up this time, I swear! Just…leave the girl alone.”

With one look over Tony’s shoulder, there was a profound support of his plea between Steve and Natasha. The decision, to them, was final, and it would take a week’s worth of convincing to disregard them, time that he’d rather not spend standing in the hot sun. With a silent nod to his men that let go Y/N’s wrists, the agents disbanded back inside the tower, leaving the director and the group to their own accord. Grey Blood was not at all relieved by these efforts, choosing to reside atop Y/N’s head and made a brave growl in the director’s face.

_Fury_ , he was called, didn’t bat an eyelash to the mystical beast growling in his presence. If anything, he didn’t even know it was there. He was so focused on Y/N, who followed behind the Avengers with slow, hesitant steps inside. The Amisian was already starting to feel both welcome and treated with hostility, but there was no surprise to that factor, if not unfazed to what had just transpired. With a look over back to the golden alien ship, Fury adjusted his eye-patch and wiped at his good eye, making a huff before turning to follow them.

Yet another _unprecedented thing._

The Avengers tower was a high-rise suite, more of less. Y/N had taken an instantaneous discernment for the open-bar before the expanse of lounge furnitures and the sleek interior. Her gaze moved adjacently to Tony, watching his expression become alight as he returned to comfort of his own home. Y/N could see it now—everything in this facility practically chanted _‘hey, look at me! I’m all shiny, new and better than you!’_. For a few seconds of settling in, Y/N gauges herself in standing awkwardly at the corner of the room. Steve and Natasha ambled elsewhere to unload their things, while Tony was busy pouring himself a hefty drink of bourbon. 

Fury didn’t move an inch, however, more than comfortable sliding himself into the polyester black couch. Even from twenty feet away, his disposition was ever prominent and consistently glowering. Y/N hadn’t met someone like him for a millennia, and it was an often occurrence when she was younger; commanded by superior tacticians, lectured by the finest combatants. It left an odd feeling in her chest, but it never left her feeling inferior. 

“Mind if I ask what planet you’re from?” His voice is like a gunshot, and Y/N blinks to the sound.

“Amis…Planet Amis. Galaxy MACS0647, home-world to the Amisians and capital of the Skaraeith empire. My _family’s_ empire.”

“You come from a line of _conquerors?”_

An involuntary wince shocks her expressive face, gnawing at her lower lip and sucking in a red sharp breath. Already she’s been read, Y/N assumed that the first gleaning sign would be within a week or so, or even within the first few minutes of their conference. Fury was direct and abrasive, and Y/N strangely felt relieved. He was straightforward and knew what he wanted, his questions were simple and were of no real value. 

“Yes,” Y/N lowers her head, “Though…I wish there was another name for that.”

“What, then? Do you prefer the term pillagers? Subjugators? You can call it whatever you want, but it won’t change the meaning nor what you are.”

_You don’t know what I am,_ she wants to say.

“I know who I am,” Y/N says lowly, “I’m not a threat to you. And you’re not a threat to me. I’d advise dropping the hostility. I’ve just come to drop them off and frankly, we’ve had one hell of a few weeks.”

He drops the topic but Y/N can see that he isn’t finished yet. He’s somewhat of a businessman, the harsher traits of one, at least. He wants to save the more important details for the meeting rather than delving into pointless small-talk. Y/N can feel the bubbling questions in the air, and she has some of her own as well—recognizing that he is the utmost calm. He’s clearly had some experience with the abnormal.

“Have you…” Y/N gathers what she can of Fury’s expression, “Have you done this before?”

Someone shouts her name before he can give her an answer, finding Tony at the other side of the room with his half-empty glass of alcohol. He’s stumbling and hasn’t had enough, coming to Y/N and muttering something about her _‘temporary stay’,_ despite her protests of the journey only being a quick stop. He shuffles forward to hold her wrist, guiding her away quickly from Fury who has the decency to look offended as Stark interrupted him. They have some form of comical awry streak.

“Tony, I told you; I’m only here to drop you guys off and answer a few questions. Then I’ll be on my way. I don’t want to cause any more trouble than I already have. Your boss agrees with me on that.”

“No, princess. You’re not pulling the old _Irish goodbye_ on us,” The old _what_ goodbye? “At least let us provide you with a dinner as a thanks, hell, a _party_ for our safe return and all you’ve done for us.”

Y/N frowns somewhat, shaking her head timidly, “You’ve helped save my world. I don’t think I can accept your thanks when I’ve only saved your lives.”

“Sweetheart, our lives are a pretty big deal,” He says with the lack of arrogance, pouting, “We’re Earth’s defenders. And if our world didn’t have us around…then everyone’s lives would be at sake. So, you saved our world, too.”

Y/N is seared with an unfamiliar warmth. A light passes through her eyes as if for the first time, and she is grateful for being here.

  
  
  


『✭』

  
  
  


The night came earlier than expected, and Y/N was disappointed with the lack of stars in the dark blanket over the city. It was a rather strange predicament; there she was, sitting at the very tip of the Avengers Tower roof exterior that was directly above the penthouse, basking in the bustling sensations of Earth’s atmosphere. She wondered herself how she managed to get up there, but decides to make a lackluster effort to drown them out by swallowing the last of her whiskey. It was the first bottle she found after raiding Tony’s liquor cabinet, and ultimately cursed at his tastes. The contents left a musk taste at the tip of her tongue, although finding that it was better than nothing. It was doing nothing.

Grey Blood decided to soar throughout the city, the silhouette of his dark grey wings becoming an impossible sight as his scales blended with the colors of New York. The beast seemed hesitant in taking flight away from Y/N when they first arrived, but could only resist his primal instincts for so long. She reassured her grey she would be fine, that he should enjoy flying in someplace new. Her keen eyesight often drifted away from him and to the vibrating lights below her boots.

Things were different here, everything was so different here on Earth. The Terrans below talked endlessly, tapping their fingers on small bright boxes and stared for hours at large picture screens, they interacted with each other in the most, to put it bluntly, asinine ways. Y/N heard fragments of their conversations, each murmur arising more and more questions. 

Getting drunk seemed to be the only way to nullify her senses, to drown out what she can hear, unlike the average human who couldn’t.

“Maybe this was a mistake…” Y/N whispers to herself, her gloved hands flattening against the empty bottle.

The adversaries of her home seemed to have some truth, after all. Y/N found herself thinking about them for the first time in weeks, wondering how they were doing, what they were thinking. In the end, all Y/N could send was her silent bitter prayers. She only counted the days of how long it would take for Raimyr to be born—only after, Gardenia’s real charges could be executed. She wondered what would become of her baby brother or sister, what would happen when they meet their other siblings. 

Y/N wondered if she had the stomach to face them, and dared to question if she could love them.

“Gods…what do I do?” 

She should have asked that a long time ago, before she left Amis.

Grey Blood came back to the roof a few minutes after taking a lap around Manhattan, snuggling close to Y/N’s side with his wings flickering a blazing blue under his stretched frills and scales. He was truly bigger than the other beasts his age, and Y/N faintly imagined what he would look like in the future. There was no conclusive image, eyes of gold flickering from one area to the other, the only feat that would stay the same. Y/N stills as she feels his body rumble under her palm, his body near scorching her skin when he swivels his neck.

He senses someone, growling at them.

Y/N turned to the direction of where her grey had been staring, following the eye-line of his slit, molten gold gaze and halts. The head on her shoulder doesn’t feel like it's her suddenly, her movement was not hers and she never had any real control at all. It was the same for her hands; flowing with tidal forces, an unconscious surge that overpowered her without thinking. Her hands closed tightly, scolding herself for doing such a thing.

Natasha puts her hands down, engirded by this new accidental hostility. 

In the end, all she does is smile in greeting.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“It’s okay,” Y/N speaks through cold lips, chapped from a peculiar nightly breeze, “How are you doing?”

Natasha strolls over with her hands stuffed into her olive-green denim jacket, swinging one leg and the other off the edge of the roof, dangling and swinging them lightly. Y/N blinks owlishly, finding that Natasha had changed the bandages around her neck from gauze to mere patches. 

“I’m doing okay. But the better question is; how the hell did you get up here? I had to find a ladder, an actual ladder in the supply closet. Do you know how many closets there are? So damn many!”

Y/N stifles a laugh and lets it reverberate through her shoulders, “Yet another difference between Amisians and humans, half the time even I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Natasha draws closer, noses nearly touching, “Did the same thing happen when we were in the armory?”

Y/N makes a sharp noise, eyes pinched tight while she tries to remember what had gone through her mind during their sparring in the ship—what provoked her to nearly strangle the life out of Natasha. She had never had such an incident happen before, not even during her younger years. Perhaps it was the emotional toll that never healed with her body, the healers mentioned something about that, some sort of ailment that also prevented her vitakinesis from working properly.

Natasha lurches forward to hold Y/N by her hands, slithering her fingers upwards to strip away the gloves that prevented Natasha’s warm skin from pressing against Y/N’s cold skin. She sighs at the contact, afraid that there would be some sort of punishment to her grip, but relaxed when none came.

“I know what happened to you was terrible,” Natasha rests her forehead with Y/N, “I understand the horrors of watching the people you love die. I know just how badly it hurts to leave the place you call home. Even if it’s just for a second…”

Y/N bears no shame in shedding tears, letting them flow freely into the wind, sparkling pearls that travel up the night sky; becoming tender stars.

“I don’t—I don’t know what is wrong with me, Natasha,” Her voice hitches with semblances of a sob, “I’m sorry that I’ve done such a thing to you. It just…it just hurt so much. I thought I was getting rid of it…”

“There’s nothing wrong with you. There’s nothing…” 

A piteous sound escapes her lips and she utterly hates every note of it. Her reddened face is pressed against the ball of the human’s shoulder, flush against this mysterious warmth that Y/N is desperate to clutch against. For so long these events transpired the same way—treated with hostility, anger, resentment—it happens at different times and different places, but it’s always the same. Y/N feels sick of it, sick of the universe that proved itself to treat her like a nuisance.

Some horrid, intrusive— _familiar_ —part of Y/N just wants to destroy every molecule of it.

“No matter what I do, I can’t stop hurting people. Even when I ran away, I still put people in danger. I hate this…I hate being the threat. I can’t stop being this curse…”

Natasha intends to ride through the struggles Y/N suffers, throughout this night, at least. She is a lonely, broken, caring, protective thing. A creature lost in this dark world looking for a light. Her mind is elsewhere, swarmed with harmful and hurtful thoughts, reasons to break down that strong exterior. The bravado that she kept up for so long is demolished by the uneventful frequencies of Earth, and she cannot blame her. One hand slides around her back, pulling her closer, deeper into this embrace filled with sympathy that she had never received before.

Such things were the same from Earth and Amis—the effects from the absence of a friendly touch were all the more similar. 

“You’re not a curse. You’re a person,” Natasha solemnly brushes away a wandering strand from Y/N’s face, “You’re not a threat wherever you go…you just seem _lost.”_

The sobs and shudders of her labored breathing are nonexistent now, left with only a damp face and an utterly stoic expression. Y/N listens to what she can and lets it settle with the breeze that travels across the nape of her neck. Her grey is all the more supportive, stirring quietly with his wings draped across each leg, cooing assuredly of Natasha’s words.

“You’re different from me. You’re different than being a human woman. You’ve lived for too long and you probably don’t know what _‘normal’_ means anymore,” The humans are staring fiercely now, her gaze more fiery than her flowing hair, “You don’t think normally because that’s not what you are. You’re lost because of it. But I’m going to help you. We are going to help you,”

Y/N is lulled by the dark flames, sad stars, and abyss of warm sympathy, pulled like a sudden burst of gravity to the blissful realm of sleep.

“We are going to help you see that Earth…can be your home, too.”

  
  
  


『✭』

  
  
  


Low and behold, Tony finally arrived at the conference room… _albeit, ten minutes late._

Y/N remained at the farthest chair from Fury, the subject in question, as stiff as a board but swallowed her dignity to try her best to not look anxious or vulnerable. Natasha offered her full and silent support, a hand in close proximity towards her thigh and gave it a reassuring squeeze. She had noticed the prolonged gaze that her superior and Amisian held before noticing its harsher tensions. Steve sat near Fury, unknowingly emphasizing the whole _‘Golden Boy’_ moniker, and begrudgingly made room for Tony who sank into the chair next to him, finally beginning the evaluation.

Fury took to stand upon the room’s podium, “Now, I understand that you all have had a tough few weeks. A pointless rescue mission, evaluation logs indicating massive amounts of damage control, a delayed return back to Earth with a minor injury to boot,”

Natasha neither flinches or glares at Fury unlike Y/N, who had done both for a second before turning away altogether. Steve watches, near with fright, but pressed his mouth firmly together. Tony, of course, doesn’t say anything—flipping mindlessly through the pages of their brief packets. Fury crosses the room in slow strides, every step of his boots erupting a rumble in the concrete floors, and every step arises a new burst of anxiousness in Y/N. She can’t speak out yet, not until there’s a direct accusation.

But then again, how silver was his tongue? Could he _actually_ turn the board against her?

_No, no, don’t think about that, Y/N. Don’t you dare_. Her warnings are abruptly stopped when Y/N finds Fury next to her.

“Mind filling in the gaps for me, Miss Y/N Skaraeith?” 

Straightening her spine, Y/N lets her lungs expand as much as it's capable, forcing some increment of a smile, “One of my Amisian surveillance pilots apparently shot down your heavy cruiser ship, mistaking it for a hostile threat. The evacuation pods had afflicted damage upon my home…it had become a place of tragedy, unfortunately and there was…not many left of us alive there,”

Another reassurance squeezes around her thigh, and Y/N finds it easier to talk through her dry throat.

“But through my efforts and them…we managed to escape. It was a personal tragedy. It was all coincidence, really,” Y/N is met with a skeptical raised brow, “They saved me from being killed like my father…if I hadn’t saved them from those burning pods, they wouldn’t have come back at all.”

Fury gave some form of a brief nod before circling back to the podium, rolling his shoulders under that hideously large leather coat.

“Your surveillance pilots mistook our ship for a hostile threat…so their solution was to just shoot it down?” Fury folds his arms, “Sounds to me like we shouldn’t drop the hostility quite yet.”

Why should there be any kind of saviors coming to her rescue right now? In truth, Y/N half-expected Natasha to speak up, hell, even Tony. However, as she was brutally reminded that she was under evaluation—the representative of all things non earthly—Y/N is only alone with witnesses. They couldn’t speak yet. Fury wants to know just who they’re vouching for.

“I’ll admit…we don’t handle visitations from other beings well. But you’re no different. Your means for standard protocols are the same as my planet’s. My family has an empire because of this, and what do you have?”

Tony looks up from the pages, a frown pulling at his lips.

“We all need rules, we all have our concerns, I get it. What happened to the ship was truly a misunderstanding and I won’t deny that it was an unfortunate accident,” Y/N leans backwards, feeling her grey perch over her spine, “But I’m not responsible for what others did. I am not like those who attacked this city once. We are all not like that,”

_Not anymore._

“I’m just trying to find myself. _Soul searching_ …I never got to,”

_This is my only chance._

“If you want me gone, fine. But at least let me make sure that we won’t bother each other. Let me teach you the first steps to becoming a bit more… _non hostile_ …the next time you have visitors like me.”

_I will not be the last._

Director Fury is truly the master of stoicism. Y/N wants to cling to the positive uplift in the air, trying to distract herself from watching as Fury’s mind practically reels with these new developments and offers, but she doesn’t have it in her to do so. She is voracious at the idea of ending the meeting early or bidding her own farewells to make an abrupt departure. However, with Natasha’s firm hold on her thigh combined with Steve’s unnaturally discomfiture posture, Y/N waits until the director finally clears his throat. The sound ricochets off these glass and black walls, where Y/N shudders in alert.

“Brief me.”

Steve straightens, assuming the task that he knows for certain no one else would take, visibly reeling his mind and its fragments to form them into words. Y/N is perturbed by his hesitation, but maintains avoiding eye-contact and does not pressure the soldier with her pleading looks. She wants to be patient, but with this silence, it’s almost as if she’s restraining them.

“The planet is presumably made up of five regions on a singular continent, it’s unknown if there are any other land masses, but our pods struck into their capital, the Echealion. The citadel is surrounded by a structure called the Seeing Gates, it appears to be the bridge to these regions,” Steve’s brows knit into a hard furrow, clearing his throat, “There was some kind of dispute from what we’ve been told, we haven’t seen what it was exactly. Y/N Skaraeith was feeble, for the most part and she saved us from being captured. In return for her help, we decided to assist her during a fray in the easternmost region.”

“Who died?” He asks it so plainly, Y/N wonders if he even cares at all.

Steve is evidently uncomfortable, eyes drawn for a split second to Y/N, who tries to suppress tears. Natasha questions the Amisian’s fortitude in a mumble, affirmed by a nod to have Rogers continue—insisting that she would be fine. 

They’ve lived anyway, that was the truth.

“Many. We were hardly injured…but a lot of Amisians and close friends of Y/N’s died. She nearly died, too.”

Y/N explicitly remembers the morning she had awoken from the medical wing after her conflict with Krow, surrounded by friends and family who all clamored at her side. They whispered incoherently through tears and mumbled sweet nothings, combing their hands through her hair and clutched at her back, fearing she might just be an apparition. There were new scars overlapping old ones throughout her body, hideously jagged and pale, white and black wounds prominent on the places she suffered the most. 

The mark on her heart was unbearable to look at, straight down the middle of her chest that was in great contrast with the color of her skin, etched with red. Some morsel of her soul withered whenever she saw it in the mirror of her ship’s quarters. Trauma surged prominently, but she refused to let it seep into her expression.

_She had it, too,_ Natasha thought, squeezing her hand slowly—gradually pulling Y/N out of her head.

“Did everyone know who you were?” Fury’s question remains low and monotonous, “Did they know that you were from Earth?”

“No, I don’t think so. Only the royal families,” Steve shakes his head, “Other than that, they might have thought that we were other Amisians.”

Fury seemed pleased with that answer, nodding, “Good. Then, nothing has changed.”

The Avengers simultaneously lets out the breath that they had been holding, receiving that no part of the evaluation had gone south—especially as Fury came out of it in a seemingly good mood. If they could even tell on his ever-so stoic face. The director rests his hands on his lap and gauges what he can of Y/N’s form. 

She cannot, for the life of her, even begin to wonder what he’s thinking.

Would he question her intentions for coming to Earth? If so, she’s told him already. Would she have to act as ambassador for the Amisians and Earth, though she wouldn’t mind, some great part of her hoped she wouldn’t. There were others who could take the job much swifter and much better than she could—unfamiliar with such duties as she held the title as bastard.

“It seems we can come to an agreement,” He finally says, breaking through the silence, “Your people and mine seem to have benefitted each other through our first meeting. I can’t imagine other planets have had the same situation, but then again, we are taking our first steps into the whole _‘bigger universe’_ thing. I think we’ve learned a lot from this, and that there’s a lot left more to learn. But if it is inconvenient on your part—“

“—It’s not,” Y/N plants her palms on the table, pushing herself upward, oddly eager, “I swear!”

Fury blinks widely before continuing, “Then, I’m sure we can make a few arrangements in adding extra precautions and protocols to our program. It’ll be more paperwork—“

And that was the magic word for Tony to make his leave, leaving from his seat in the same fashion as Y/N before striding to her side, encircling an arm around the startled Amisian’s shoulder.

“—Alright! We’ve got the a-okay from the big boss man. That’s our cue! Come on, princess, time to get all dressed for the ball,” Tony and Y/N ultimately ignored Fury’s shouts of protests, along with Natasha’s muffled snicker behind her hand, “I have a card here, it’ll give you everything you need tonight. Kind of like your fairy godmother.”

Y/N quizzically blinked, tilting her head, _“My fairy godmother?”_

With Y/N and Tony gone, Fury’s eye spotted the smooth movements of Natasha, who shrugged her shoulders with the ghost of a smirk slanting on her lips. She left the conference room with a skip in her step, where Steve and the director were left alone. Even if he was the _‘Golden Boy’,_ Steve rather felt intimidated being alone with Fury, deciding to make his exit slow and apologetic, but was still trying his best to get out of there as quickly as possible.

Finding himself alone, brief-packets practically untouched, Fury put his head in his hands.

“Goddammit, Stark.”

  
  
  


『✭』

  
  
  


_Were these the finer things of this world?_

Y/N runs her hand through the silk-felt ruby dress as she thinks of such a question. A foul thought comes next as she moves next to the plum-velvet wrap, coming closer to the lengthy row of different attires spread throughout the mattress of her bed. It was hard to believe that so many outfits could be bought with such a little plastic card, and it hardly put a dent in what Tony called his _‘spending money’._ There is an arrangement to the manufacture of Amisian clothing, strung in the threads with light enchantments with little functions, entertaining and fashionably fun additions—they would glow like bloom-flies, cinder like the start of a flame, or shimmer like prisms. 

Terrans were awfully obsolete in the use of sorcery in their garments, weren’t they?

Natasha had slipped into a flattering red dress, slit above the thigh and donned a pair of matching red heels, she said they made her feel like _‘Dorothy’_ , whoever that was. She had stretched her form upright as she stared into the mirror, waiting for Y/N to make her own decision and wasn’t quite helpful with sorting the array. The event tonight, in celebration for their anxious return and welcoming of a harmless extraterrestrial company, made peculiar shivers tingle down her spine. Y/N didn’t fancy lively parties, but decided to take a chance with tonight, being that this was her first time away from home; alone.

“You should try the dove grey one,” Natasha chimed, flattening out her hem, “A mild color will really bring out those wonderful eyes you have. Or you might want to match. Maybe with Grey Blood…Lord knows I don’t want the green fading in with my dress and hair. It gives the fellas something to focus on other than the… _y’know.”_

Y/N raises her head curiously, appearing innocent to Natasha who suddenly looks bewildered in the mirror, “No, I don’t know. What exactly might you be referring—“

“—Are you serious?” The humans catch the half-blood by the arms, who is shocked by her quick appearance, “Haven’t you ever…dressed to impress?”

The Amisian’s brows knit into a hard furrow, “Dressed to impress…my _court?”_

“Well, **_courting_** , yeah.” 

Y/N falls utterly blank at the revelation, making a pucker with her lips while letting out a quiet _‘oh’_ sound. The recollection of similar soirées have no memory of her being the debutante looking for a bachelor, she scoffed at the idea, regularly. Y/N shakes her head at this, shrugging her shoulders indifferently before moving her gaze towards the dresses—all that have looked to have a different meaning now.

Y/N tries to shuffle away from the conversation, but it seems that Natasha won’t let her. The grips on her biceps are vice, but not at all harsh. Her steps are brisk to rush each other towards the bed, sitting down quickly where the thoughts of Y/N’s past intimacies are like taking daggers to the head.

“Okay, clearly you’ve never been the belle of the ball,” Yet another reference that Y/N is clueless on, “Haven’t you’ve ever been with someone? Or spent a… _night_ …with them?”

Y/N is more than a timid creature now; horrified, one would say.

“Well, if you must know…I’ve never…been with someone before, at least not in the traditional sense,” Y/N winces at her own words, dreadful now of Natasha’s heightened curiosity, “Mere flings you might call them. But they were all…political. _Romance_ …just doesn’t seem to exist in my life.”

A chuckle startles and a laugh frightens her, Y/N observes Natasha’s sudden outburst incredulously. Did she say something weird? Was such a thing truly humorous?

“ _Romance_ …” Natasha echoes, eyes adrift for a mere second before shrugging over a particular dress from the spread, “Thank god you didn’t say love. Otherwise, I would’ve been worried for you.”

Y/N is meager from understanding, frowning upon the fabric that pools down across her lap. It was a simple knee-dress, a dark grey with a light assembly of twinkling sequins—almost like stars—-sheer in the long-sleeves with a small puff. It was beautiful, with or without any enchantments. Her fingers rub together with the fabric, smoothing out the small wrinkles.

“Maybe you just haven’t found the right person. Situations like that are ridiculously regular here.” 

“Wow,” Y/N breathes, eliciting a laugh from Natasha, “I had no idea. Poor humans.”

“Yes, many of us are very unfortunate.” Her own curiosity peaks when a flash of melancholy reveals through Natasha’s eyes, evergreen and distant.

Involuntarily, Y/N suddenly asks, “Have you ever experienced romance, Natasha? Have you ever been in love?”

There nothing but silence, even the tension within the atmosphere seems lost on Y/N. The regret is instantaneous and Natasha knows this. For that, she cannot blame her. She is not human, they both remind themselves, searching within that reason for the justification. But she was also an adult with feelings. Y/N ducks her head as Natasha pats the dress on her thigh, slipping from the mattress to exit the room.

“No, I haven’t found them yet. I’ll see you in ten.” 

Humans weren’t only scared…they could be _broken_ , too.

The concerned trill of Grey Blood brought Y/N back to reality, gripping the dress firmly and bulleted from her seat. As she practically stumbled into the restroom, strapping herself into the dress, Y/N is flooded with the practice of social skills that she’ll need to polish in the presence of the Terrans. She wondered if they talked differently as she slid herself into a pair of wedge heels, comparing the possible topics of conversation when she dons light gold earrings. As a finishing touch, occupied with the conclusion and hopeful encouragement that she would be fine, Y/N conjures what she can of an unspoken command.

Clear gloves encase her hands, made of shaped waters and flexes through the silk material with discomfort.

_Old habits die hard_ , Y/N thinks with a frown, ignoring her hair that she lets the only thing be wild and free.

Being herself is the virtue. No one was going to change that. She is above normality and opposes adversity. She is an Amisian, a damn good one at that. She is descended from malevolent gods and their broken spirits, having broken many others during her long life. No human has ever encountered an Amisian in such formalities, and Y/N was bent on making a new history.

She was not the Wild Star, not here. She was just… _Y/N Skaraeith._

When the night comes, the Avengers Tower is filled with humans. They are capricious as company, refined guests with many different dispositions. They are dressed to the nines in vivid colors, almost hurtful. Y/N leans slightly over the railing of the balcony, searching through the many figures of movement to find any semblance of familiar red, blonde, or black hair. Truthfully, she doesn’t want to be alone when she was announced to the public, a feat to the event that Tony had planned, something that most likely would have ran away from altogether if Natasha hadn’t given her a heads up first. 

“Looking for someone?” 

A man’s voice questions from behind, making her turn. Y/N finds a man with spectacles who gives a short wave, coming to join her against the railing with a slow gaze scraping the view. She feels tense at this sudden encounter—another human. Y/N gives a wry smile, folding her arms over the edge.

“No, I just…don’t do well in crowds.”

The man laughs, nodding with sympathy, “Oh, I get that.”

“Mind if I ask why you’re mingling then?” Y/N sees this man as peculiar, a tad bit awkward, too, in a way—it was a reason to relax, “I’m not exactly…from around here. I’m not used to the parties or politics. For all I know, they’re like me; _enduring.”_

“Well, you’ve got me. I’m enduring, too. Honestly, it wasn’t my choice to come here but…my employers insisted on it. They had something important planned tonight.”

Throwing a questioning brow, the man gives a reluctant shrug, “I’m part of the top dogs. The _A-Team_ …the Avengers,”

_Oh._

Y/N suddenly feels the urge to drink.

“I’m Bruce. _Bruce Banner.”_

His hand extends, to which Y/N shakes slowly, taking a leap of bravery.

“I’m Y/N Skaraeith. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Immediately, Y/N pulls herself away when the human’s face falls open. The bridge of his glasses falls further down his nose, and his hand slowly rises upward to extend a crooked, pointed finger. She is afraid that he’ll start throwing accusations, and frankly, her nerves might not be able to withstand the public’s eyes all at once before scheduled.

“You’re the alien,” Bruce breaths incredulously, “You’re the extraterrestrial being visiting from _Amiss_ —I mean, Amis! My god, it’s—“

“—Please, don’t make a scene!” Y/N raises her hands to stop him, yet Bruce shakes his head.

_“No, no, no!_ I’m sorry! I just—I had no idea. I didn’t mean to offend you,” A hand rakes through the brown curls of his hair, “I thought our meeting would be a little more formal, if you know what I mean. I thought we’d have our introductions in a conference room, not just by coincidence, I’m sorry.”

Y/N strives to feel relief. The human doesn’t seem scared— _he isn’t_ —he’s just utterly, plainly surprised. The breath that leaves her lips is uniquely cold, equal with the same stillness as the air conditioning of the room. The flow of her veins is pulsing when she holds them, arms retracting to her sides as she struggles to release that breathy laugh, but Bruce didn’t notice it all anyway. He’s busy in his own head, a thematic addition and reason behind his specs. Y/N shifts the weight on her heels awkwardly, eyes snapping forward when she sees Natasha advancing towards them.

Finally, Y/N feels the shock of relief. 

“Bruce, I see you’ve met Y/N.” Romanoff gives a wry smile, an expression that isn’t strong enough to demolish the relief.

“Yeah…yeah, yeah. We’ve _uh_ …we’ve just met.” Bruce’s stammering ceases when he gives a shuddering chuckle, giving one last swipe through his hair, “It was such an unexpected introduction. I thought Tony would be introducing her.”

“He is. You just got to her first.” The humans exchange a small smile.

“I was looking for you,” Y/N finally finds her voice, glad to have spoken, even if it was meek, “I thought I’d wait up here until I needed to make an appearance. But I’m assuming—“

_“—Yup,”_ Natasha concludes, grabbing a hold of Y/N’s wrist, “You’re on.”

As the two women make way for the downstairs floor, Y/N throws her head over her shoulders, trying to maintain that friendly mien as she waves lightly, “It was nice meeting you!”

Y/N doesn’t see the nervous wave that Bruce sends, leaving him alone in the crowd yet again, enduring—the both of them were.

  
  
  


『✭』

  
  
  


The feeling of relief was only temporary. The presence of social anxiety was the only real permanence. Y/N was glad to have found a distraction, though; Natasha would be up there with her. Even if it was only smiling. She was guided to the stage platform where Tony already resided, a glass of bourbon in one hand and a microphone in the other. Muttering the name _‘JARVIS’,_ he asked an invisible presence to dimmer the room, lower the music, and flip the switch on the spotlight while the guest of honor finished bouncing up the steps, nearly freezing doing so. He certainly did know how to create a big, theatrical appearance, didn’t he?

A collection of eyes danced upon her figure. Y/N did her best not to feel any fires of judgement that traveled across her face, dress, or practical upright form. The flowing fabrics feel constrictive and itches on her arms. Desperately, she tries to think of them as regular Amisians before she is given a chance to speak, but is certain that the notion would only accomplish so much. 

Natasha’s slow thumb circling around the ball of her shoulder stops, giving it one last tap before pressing her palm flat there, giving her a gentle push forward that makes her heart skip. The silence was deafening, such an odd thing for Y/N who had been redolent with the occurrence on numerous occasions. More than once was it in the middle of the battlefield.

Tony yet again circles an arm around her shoulder, gesturing outwards to this audience that is suddenly all shadows and incoherent movement under this concentrated beam of light. Y/N feels better at this, somehow. She can’t see their faces, they don’t look human and they don’t need to look Amisians. Tony’s voice ruptures through one ear and out the other again, amplified with the hand-held contraption in his hand.

“Good evening, everyone. Welcome to the Avengers, former Stark, tower, we hope you are having a wonderful time. We’d like to thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for attending this event. Although, we understand that some of you might be…vacillate towards the reasons for tonight’s event,” Already, Y/N can hear the waves of murmurs within the dim sea, “Upon our tardy arrival back to Earth, we have encountered beings that saved us by the skin of our teeth and we have done the same for them. Thus, marks a new concord for the people of Earth and the people of Amis.”

The murmurs are restless now, rutting louder against the elevated ceiling and transparent walls that create a low rumble. Y/N breathes slowly and is wracked with this profound new taste of the air; shockingly ozone, and the voice is caught in her throat when she attempts to speak on her own. Tony passes the microphone to her, a thing that she had never held before, an Earthly device, yet managed to mimic his actions.

Where is that boldness? What happened to the untamed quirk for spryness that she used to have in front of authoritative figures? Was that gone, too? Had it disappeared along with her father?

Say something.

_Anything_. 

“Thank you…for being here,” The audience is visibly struck by her voice, not from its meekness, but of its intensity, “My name is Y/N Skaraeith and I am from the planet Amis…I…hope we can all get along.”

There is a dither after her introduction, but Y/N chooses to ignore it. She musters what she can of a smile before letting her instincts seize control of her limbs. Her desire to just relax is persistent, taking her leave from the stage. The music is rambunctious once more following the sound of Tony’s warbled enthused yell—it was as if she wasn’t even heard in the first place—and the people return to their conversations. Y/N began to wonder if she was at all the topic of their chatter. But then again, that was the last thing she wanted to be; a controversy, a piece of gossip, a possible threat.

Gods, she needed a drink.

“Y/N,” A voice jerked her head backwards, torn between the ink lights and the silhouette of a familiar man emerging into the brighter gleams, finding Steve Rogers, “You look lovely tonight. Earth seems to have some good taste for you, after all.”

She wants to laugh, she really does. Instead, the crooked smile that aches her cheeks is the only form of assurance that she was okay. She gives him a friendly evaluation, taking note of the lackluster effort of dressing flamboyantly tonight—a button-up with slacks—the only real fashionable thing about him was the folded cuffs. Even though those were poorly done, too, Y/N couldn’t deny that he looked good, playfully giving a thumbs-up of approval. 

“You don’t look too bad yourself, Steve Rogers,” Y/N wastes no time cutting through a small cluster of people, turning to beckon him, “I was gonna get a drink, would you like to join me?”

Unlike Y/N’s smile, Steve’s is genuine, “Absolutely.”

“Good. Then, you’re gonna have to guide me.”

_But…she’s trying._

Ever the gentleman, Steve Rogers extends a welcoming arm, acting as if he was her very own cavalier. She gratefully accepts, beginning to familiarize herself the path to what would be her most frequent retreat during her stay in the tower. Y/N is thankful for the silence of their excursion, wordlessly following behind Steve towards Tony’s open bar that she spotted yesterday. 

The slope of her wrist is gently held when they trudge through a particularly crowded group of people, paying no mind toward the instantaneous whispers that trailed behind her as they passed. Y/N chooses to swallow her pride, essentially flushed against his shoulder before finally coming to the stools. Steve offers the first seat to Y/N, who slides into it with a small hop, sardonic anger showing through that false smile when she hears his innocent snicker.

“Not everyone is as big and tall as you.” Her voice is empty of rancor, watching mindlessly as Steve plucks a stray bottle of whiskey into a pair of complimentary glasses, sliding one into her open palm.

“I get that,” Steve is playfully mutual when he sees her raised brow of disbelief, “Trust me, I do! I remember once that I couldn’t see my face on a face board. I wasn’t tall enough. I was real small, skinny, too.”

“You make it sound like it was a bad thing,” Y/N slides her finger in the air to his body, taking a leisure sip of her drink. “How long did it take you to get like this then? It must’ve taken you years to look how you are now.”

Something distinctive flashes in his eyes—a reoccurring event in humans, apparently.

“Took five minutes, at most. Hell of a painful experience, too,” He pours his own drink before elaborating as he sees Y/N’s dubious stare, “I was part of an experiment. Real cutting-edge stuff, their only successful result…You’re not the only one whose lived a long life.”

“Millions of years versus…”

_“Ninety-five.”_

Steve truthfully adores the low whistle she makes, hiding his biting grin by sipping on his drink.

“Well, whatever’s inside you, it’s working miracles.” 

“What’s in you? Aside from your whole… _physiology?”_ Steve raises a brow, watching as she shrugs her shoulders innocently.

“Intrepidity and a good skin-care routine, which I’m sure you have, too,” This time, it was Steve’s turn to look skeptical, Y/N releasing a dry laugh before wetting her lips with another sip, “And a couple of blessings from my old gods. A direct descendant.”

It wasn’t a lie, quite frankly, she did come from gods. Every Amisian had some part of their essence in them somewhere, and it was impossible to dominate it as their own. Such blessings that she described had many of its own autonomous purposes; longevity, durability, strength, intellect, numerous others that Amisians had been gifted with—yet hardly any acted as if they were gods themselves. The Skaraeith family had come into power for a different reason altogether; they _destroyed_ the gods.

Y/N felt resentful towards this, wondering how she could think of her life if it was as long as a human’s. Would she appreciate it more because it was shorter? Would she dread the long days that bring no meaning?

Being human is a different ordeal all on its own. 

“S’not just longevity though,” Y/N reveals, pouring into another glass, “Enhanced reflexes come in handy, too. I can outrun a tracer vessel on a good day…Also, this whiskey is nothing against my strong liver, but I suppose that’s a good thing.”

Steve sways backwards, the corners of his mouth upturning when she raises her glass for his, where they click together with a dull splatter. 

“I can relate to that,” Steve chuckles, “The serum I’ve got…it keeps me from getting drunk. Not that I ever got to anyway. I was a good kid back then, I never drank.”

Y/N ogles at the soldier who shrinks back after finishing his glass. He is momentarily blinded by the flickering hanging lights that loom over the bar, questioning if what he saw was real; the blaze in her own eyes. She might have been lying, he thought, there might’ve been some kind of drunken factor that made her fist slam on the table. When it rose to point an accusatory finger at him, Steve was aghast at the dent it had left in the surface. 

“Well, that just won’t do,” Y/N silences Steve’s half-choked noise of confusion, “Enhanced metabolism or not, no serum can be as powerful enough as sorcery. Here,”

Y/N wiggles her fingers impatiently for his drink, practically snatching it from his fingers when he reluctantly passes the glass to her. It is barely filled at the bottom, and Y/N examines it with sour interest. She grabs the half-empty bottle of whiskey and pours it to his glass and her own before setting it down in front of her, honing her complete focus on the dark beige. 

Before Steve’s eyes, which had undoubtedly seen those blazing lights, had watched the swirls of white turn the hazel to a glistening amber.

“What are you—“

“—A drinking game,” Y/N says simply, her lips split into a wicked grin, “This will deteriorate the integrity of your metabolism temporarily. If you drink enough, then your liver will be just like everyone else’s. That just begs the question; how much can you, _Captain America_ , actually drink?”

Steve appears fearful of the idea, but Y/N shrugs, “This’ll work the same with yours onto mine. How about it?” 

_I’m gonna regret this_ , they both thought.

When Steve takes the drink after giving it a skeptical glance, downing the glass before Y/N follows in suit. It seems that many other humans have seen what had transpired, most likely interested from the bright colors that had danced in their drinks, and the sea of careless murmurs returned. There was playful judgement, a lighter atmosphere that Y/N was unusually comfortable with.

They place their bets, they share their similar experiences, converse about Amisian curiosities—they’re having fun.

“I’m starting to feel something.” Steve mutters wetly while Y/N proceeds to laugh.

Yeah, she could get used to Earth. Just for tonight.


	18. The Source「17」

## 𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐁𝐨𝐱𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐎𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫

Amisians never use sorcery, and for good reason. 

The results can be unpredictable, far too good or far too terrible, borderline catastrophic for the reckless and beginners. One tiny rain cloud could become a violent hurricane in seconds, Y/N has seen similar incidents before—hell, she’s had her own fair share of orchestrating them. Her skill for sorcery was not as perfected as her own natural abilities, it was more of a hobby than a necessity. She should have reminded herself not to go too overboard with the enchantments in the liquor last night, never truly knowing how much weakening the concoction did to her liver. But then again, she was determined not to fall short and beat Steve in their drinking game.

_Gods,_ can that guy drink.

She could hardly remember last night, wondering how much they actually drank, what took place within the lively Avengers tower, and who had won the game. In the end, Y/N stopped thinking altogether, the headache finally catching up with her and stamped on that trail of unanswered questions. 

Awakening to an intense punch of light directly to the eyes, Y/N lugs her hand over her face to shield herself from the blinding assault, finding herself trapped by the weight of a thick duvet. Blinking rapidly, using what strength she had left in her trembling forearms, slowly pushing herself up in the bed of her guest-room. Despite everything being in place and barely touched, everything felt like it wasn’t; tilting to the side. She was fearful that the organizers on the nearby desk would fall off and the stationery inside would spill everywhere. She didn’t want to drag herself out of bed, not yet.

However, upon blinking once more, Y/N sees that her whole head is actually slanted. 

She is unable to withhold the weight of her own head, at last falling back down and onto something much firmer than the mattress.

Y/N compared her head to a simple egg; feeling like it had split open and her yolk-brains spilled out all over whatever the hell she fell on. She questioned with a nasty hiss if she fell off of the bed and onto the concrete floor, before winding up wishing that such a harsh thing was true; eyes leveraging open again to see the face of Steven Grant Rogers snoozing right above her cheek. 

Why, _oh why,_ couldn’t she have woken up in the middle of the street instead?

Consciousness slammed into her psyche, and Y/N felt more alive than she had been since her times in war, splashed awake like cold water as the sensation of his warm breath fanned against her lashes. She yanked her head away, snapped upright to see his entire body sprawled out across the right side of the bed, one of his legs dangling off the side. Y/N let out a strained noise when she attempts to slither away from under the covers, finding more weight at the base of her hip, keeping her from making a hasty escape. Steve’s arm was draped there, holding her as if she was a prized stuffed animal.

But Y/N wasn’t filled with cotton, she was filled with _fear._

She had never been in this situation before, and frankly, never thought she would ever have to. Y/N drank buckets during her youth, yes, but she was always careful about her company. Even through her drunkenness, the will of her dignity was fierce as she turned down multiple offers of men who tried to work their charm. Fearing that something despicably scandalous transpired, Y/N shifted her throbbing arm to push some portion of the duvet aside that had covered Steve, painfully audible as a breath of relief escaped her; he still has clothes on, _thank goodness._

The first and last two buttons of his shirt were undone, the sleeves and their cuffs had barely been clinging onto his thickset of arms, one of them had been rolled down completely. There were some recognizable stains on various areas; bourbon spots, drops of grease, and… _oh gods, is that blood?_ Increments of filth were streaked on his face, too. A word on his neck written smelly black ink that she had a feeling was vulgar in meaning, a nasty cut at its side, a lipstick print on the corner of his mouth—Y/N sighs in relief when she wasn’t wearing any—and a wad of tissue that’s stuffed up his grotesquely broken nose.

Well, that explains where the blood came from… _kind of._

Y/N shivers with newfound reason, disturbed more than ever towards their capabilities of drinking. Fate had been riddling her experience on Earth with bad streaks, is she just now getting the hint?

The Amisian tries to remove herself from the human, shimming her waist from his arm and worming her way towards the other vacant side of the bed. Successfully, and unfortunately loudly, Y/N manages to escape with only a sleepy mumble from Steve. She is hit with another pulse of a migraine as she rolls across the room, stopping at the door. Wavering slightly as she stands, she jerks it open, seeing no one along the corridor, thankfully.

Y/N looks back slowly, pinched sourly when she stares at Steve again.

_How did he get here? Why is he here? Doesn’t he have a room somewhere in the building?_

She bites back a groan, steering for the restroom. She finds herself appalling and a pathetic excuse for royalty when she sees herself in the mirror. Earth wasn’t being so nice to her at all, was it? But then again, as Y/N notes with bitterness, playing the drinking game was entirely her suggestion. It was her fault. Especially since she was against an enhanced human. She fixes what she can of her hair, reciting harmless incantations to tidy what she missed, moving on to clean the damage of the mysteriously sore, red spot on her forehead. 

_Curious things,_ Y/N thinks quietly, _curiously terrible things._

_“You’re finally awake.”_

The unexpected voice almost has Y/N letting out a fully-formed scream, had she not bitten the base of her tongue in time. She instead only winces sharply with a venomous glare towards Natasha who does not look as morose. The smirk she displays is all the more of a reason to draw out the resentful differences between Amisian and humans— _regular humans_ —they’re all the wiser, even if they are weaker. She shakes her head sourly, manifesting what she can of the dry air, molding the liquid into a careless shape. It shudders rigidly before it solidifies into ice, holding it up to her red spot.

“Good morning to you, too.” Y/N raises a brow when the human snorts.

“It’s one in the afternoon. You slept like the dead.”

“I _should’ve_ been dead based on how terrible I feel. ”

Natasha folds her arms over her chest, her temple pressed against the doorframe, “You looked like the exact opposite last night. You were practically having the time of your life. Steve, too.”

“Oh, yeah,” Y/N turns away from the mirror, brows knitted to a furrow, “Do you know why the hell—“

“—He’s always a gentleman, even when he’s drunk,” Natasha chuckles, lips curled into a wicked grin, “Last night, you lost at your little drinking game…or _big_ drinking game, you guys drank a lot.”

“Oh, I can tell.” Y/N winces while she applies a little pressure to her head’s tender point.

“When you realized that Steve won, you got angry and performed a nearly fatal head-butt to his nose with that Amisian strength of yours—“

_“—Which explains why my head hurts so much—“_

“—And you knocked yourself out because of it. It’s really impressive, I must say. Steve gets his nose smashed in and still manages to stay conscious. Meanwhile, you suffer a small bruise and completely black-out. Humans; _one._ Amisians; _zero.”_

Okay, she was never getting drunk again. Y/N blinks. Correction; she was never going to drink with _enchantments ever_ again. Y/N grimaces at the conception of causing needless harm to others, especially in a drunken state. Although Steve was an enhanced human and only suffered moderately, she was a celebrated pacifist. She wonders if that unknown thing inside of her caused her wildness to get out of hand, but decides to focus on that later, intent on fixing those wrongs.

“When he wakes up, we’ll head on over to the infirmary.” Natasha offers a kind smile, patting Y/N’s shoulder.

However, the Amisian makes a lurch forward, surprising both Natasha and herself. Even though she readily parts her lips to speak, Y/N finds her voice dry and unrehearsed.

“I can handle it,” She croaks, averting her feverish gaze, “I caused this, I can fix this myself.”

“How? Are you gonna douse some water on him? Or do what you did when you fell off the gazebo? I don’t think that’ll work on him though—“

“I am not only limited to aquatic prowess, Natasha,” Y/N explains, removing herself from the restroom before treading down the length of the corridor, “They’re not fond of thematic titles for my secondary skill; _vitakinesis._ I can heal Steve on my own. But I fear that the process will be…only _minorly_ unpleasant.”

The half-blood awkwardly shuffles back into her guest room, frowning thinly as she observes the soldier still unmoving and slumbering across the mattress. Gathering her bearings, Y/N ambles quietly, near tip-toeing towards the human who stirs lightly as their proximity shortens. It’s as if he can sense her presence. She rarely had that effect on people, but she never thought that it would be the same with humans. Her hands move intricately to strip away the watery gloves from her skin, the small streams dancing slightly within the air. It comes down like rain, swirling above her palm. In a way, Y/N is glad to put her abilities to minimal uses. She has used more than enough of it during her recent days on Amis, and has hurt too many with it. 

To heal someone, like she once did with her injured comrades, was a nice change of pace.

Y/N hovers herself above Steve, tracing the red rims of his wound with her gaze. It doesn’t appear too bad, this was an easy task. As the pads of her fingers rest on the bridge of his nose, Y/N applies a minuscule amount of pressure, relieved for the lack of blood loss. Most of it had been absorbed in the tissue, thank goodness, but it can certainly lead to infection. 

The Amisian soaks away the stray bits of dried blood with the tiny pools in her hands, the once clear pellets becoming a rosy pink. She wonders what else kinds of wounds she inflicted that she has no knowledge of, wondering if she had hurt other non-enhanced humans on the way back from the party. She lingers on the possible whereabouts of Tony, thinking where he might’ve been and what damage he had done if he was involved.

Swiftly, she snaps Steve’s nose back into place.

Y/N had been contemplating, thinking too deeply and too carelessly to process the unanticipated force of movement that pins her down onto the mattress. 

“You hurt me while you’re awake and now you hurt me while I’m asleep? A little early for that, isn’t it?” Steve’s voice rasped, his voice gravely and husk, still coaxed in drowsiness, and Y/N cannot tell if he’s being impish or not.

“Correction,” She wheezes, pushing her knees upward to heave him forward, hooking her arm around his before twisting their weight, dislodging from each other before Y/N slides upward to straddle him, “I’m doing the opposite; I’m _healing_ you, you big dope. Now, hold still—“

“—Are you sure you’re not gonna do anything else… _drastic?”_ Steve seems fearful, almost, and it does little to unnerve her.

Y/N leans downward, provoking Steve to act on an abnormal response between fight or flight, but he remains still. He is almost entranced by those ethereal eyes of hers, the pair that danced in the familiar light that looked just like the glowing embers he drank, and Steve could feel her very presence press against his throat. She remained indifferent and silent, where he questioned what she was going to do to him, trying to make him feel. Her hands flattened on his shoulders, sliding slowly up to his face, caressing it slowly before she smiles— _an innocently naive smile_ —and Steve feels like he can finally breathe.

“I will if you want me to,” She breathes quietly, pressing her index and thumb between his nose, “I could fix that nasty scratch on the side of your neck. Though, I’d have to get my hands dirty.”

Steve can feel something surge where her fingers rest, shivering when he feels a flowing current seep into his skin. It’s warm and gushing, as if his nostrils had taken a bit of water by mistake, but was not at all harsh or painful. The soldier succumbs to her touch, nearly forgetting about that dangerously suggestive implication that didn’t at all sound explicit to Y/N.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice comes out meek but louder than the sound of his rushing blood.

“What for? I won, you blacked out, we were both drunk; fair game.” 

“I’m sorry that I _hurt_ you,” She corrects with a firmer voice, moving her forearms lower to let him see her purely solemn expression, “I didn’t come to Earth only to just spend time away from my family…I needed to take better care and control of myself. I was supposed to…I am supposed to be better.”

Steve frowns under her palm, tilting his head back slightly as her fingers swipe above his lip, “You can’t expect to be a better person in one day. It takes months…even years.”

“I’ve lived for too many, Steve, I know that.”

As Y/N’s kinetic surges in a much stronger wave as she mends the bones, she remembers the numerous times of healing her siblings’ wounds. From scraped knees to nearly dismembered limbs, the remedial process was always the same. She read their blood, her psyche tracing the trauma of the suffered wounds before replicating what came out of it. It was the same for her fellow soldiers, comrades, and superiors. She mended bone marrow, red and white blood cells, spindles of flesh, tissue—whatever was missing or spilled onto the ground—but could never truly heal the _pain._

She feared what could happen if she was responsible for something she couldn’t heal at all.

Y/N shivered at the thought, finally finishing the wound on Steve’s nose.

“Done. Now, are we good?” She mutters, paling when she feels arms hook around her hips.

Steve sits upright without a sign of tiring effort, and Y/N merely frowns as he does so, raising a brow when he emerges with only a smile. They are chest to chest, pressed together— _holding_ _each other—_ and basking in this unknown silence. Y/N is oblivious, but she isn’t completely so. Before her lips part to question his antics, Steve smashes his forehead against the recently healed spot on Y/N’s head that had just become unbearably sore again. Steve unwraps his arms from her body, no longer flushed together as the force of the impact sent Y/N plummeting backwards. She rolls off the mattress and on the floor with a harsh groan filling the room, the only resonance that Steve is _delighted_ to hear.

“Now, we’re good.”

If anyone asks, Steve would blame it on the booze.

  
  


『✭』

  
  
  


The stench of citrus had pervaded the conference room in an unkindly, stinging manner. The Amisian doesn’t know why it sat half-peeled nor who it belonged to. The smell made Y/N’s nose crinkle and her throbbing forehead pinch every so often, momentarily breaking eye-contact from the S.H.I.E.L.D. distributed monitors. The flickering whites and blues were harsh against the warmer tones that came in through the cracked window, where Y/N wanted nothing more than to bask in its radiance. Director Fury made sure of it that Y/N’s time on Earth would not be spent in complete leisure, and truthfully, she rather preferred it.

She debated whether or not she was ready to go soul searching, especially since she had not yet done a lot to earn the trust of the human race—not while she was walking among them. But her time was running short, the party had passed. Now, she had work to do.

Y/N throws her head back to see the surprising appearance of Bruce Banner come into the room, accompanied by Tony, who had immediately furrows to the powerful aroma. He gives the room a quick scan behind his designer shades, a costly yet easily replaceable item, and finds the perpetrator of the foulness in the room. The lone, half-peeled orange sat in the corner of the room, hidden behind the scribbled easel where it had collected the shavings of multi-color dry-erase markers, adding more of an unwanted potency. Y/N watches thankfully and wordlessly as Tony yanks the window open, chucking it outside the building.

“How long have you been in here?” Bruce asks, fanning his hand, “I can barely breathe, this place stinks.”

“Hello, Doctor Banner,” Y/N greets, not looking up from her work, “I’ve been trying to calibrate your association’s radars with the most unsophisticated surveillance engine since…two in the afternoon. It’s hardly picking up any signals outside of the Milky Way but I’m sure with just a few more adjustments…”

_Yeah, this was barely working,_ Y/N grimaces.

Tony takes a seat next to Y/N and peers into the intricacy of the multiple flashing monitors. Coordinate destinations, thermal radiation formulas, and other normal intergalactic, atmospheric engineering things. He didn’t even bat an eyelash, but instead pointed crookedly at a specific frame, enlarging it as the window suspends away from the monitor entirely. Courtesy of his own technologies, of course. Y/N was almost thwarted from her work—she didn’t know it could do that—she almost felt primitive.

“Your interstellar diameter levels are off,” Tony concludes, ignoring the instantaneous incredulous look that Y/N shoots his way, “You forgot to carry the five. How did you forget to carry the five?”

“Not only did you forget to carry the five…” Bruce continues with a drawl, stepping towards the other side of the frame, his fingers rubbing against his stubble, “There’s a missing link here, outside the plane and its fluctuations…A bit… _obvious_. Sorry.”

Y/N massages her temples, finally pushing herself away from the monitors before slumping down on the nearest office chair. She finds wheels on the furniture’s legs needless, another strange humanely thing, but she somewhat enjoys pushing herself aimlessly, spinning. The half-blood is not particularly tech-savvy, but she can assemble the basic essentials of a small aircraft. Intergalactic simulations and engineering, however, was not her field. She was born to act, not observe.

“Can you two figure this out, then?” Y/N asks, her head rolling sluggishly into her palm, “You’re supposedly some of the greatest minds on Earth. Your assistance would be a lot more helpful than your criticism.”

“It’s not criticism,” Tony snorts, highlighting various texts in cybernetic yellow, “It’s just making corrections. Don’t worry, princess, we all have our days.”

Y/N fights the urge to chuck a nearby pen when Bruce joins to laugh. They proceed to take on the task of finding the missing bridge while Y/N finally takes her chance to relax by the window still. Her chin rests on top her folded arms as the rays of sunset warms her lashes, her cheeks fanned with heat as the radiant blemishes give her a fluttering glow. This was nice, she admits quietly, hearing nothing but white noise and the occasional chuckles from the two humans working behind her. The smell of citrus was dull and faded, but lulls her deeper into the sweet veil of slumber.

_She could block out the world,_ Y/N thinks drowsily, _just for a moment._

_“Who the hell threw my orange out the window!?”_

Y/N bursts out of her seat, more awake than ever as the voice of Director Fury, enraged by the predicament of his missing orange, almost ruptures her eardrums. She stands with shaky legs and veers her head, finding the room behind her dark and difficult to adjust to after sitting in the sun for so long. Her face crinkles as if it had been scorched than warmed, pushing the dark spots away to see Tony, Bruce, and the director. The two scientists were easily unfazed, Tony especially, while Fury looked absolutely livid—even if she was staring at his back.

_“Tony did it.”_ Bruce points.

_“Bruce did it.”_ Tony accuses.

_Wow, Earth’s greatest minds, huh?_

Fury gives them, what Y/N assumes, is the most unspeakable, foulest glare in this known universe before the two humans exchange looks.

**_“Y/N did it.”_ **They say together, eliciting the Amisian’s own terrible glare.

Thankfully, Director Fury doesn’t believe them for a second. He turns to Y/N with the ghost of a brighter attitude hanging on his shoulders, arms folded behind his back, tucked neatly in that ungodly black coat of his. Y/N can feel herself sweat in her casual Earthly attire just by looking at it, breaking the silence with a quick smile, trying to mask the fact that she was slacking.

“We’ve managed to find a way to calibrate your facilities with as much intergalactic data as possible. The synchronization, however, is missing a link and we’re trying to find it as fast as we—“

“—If you’re trying to break through the quadrants, you’re missing the dark energy acceleration expansion.”

_Oh._

**_“Oh.”_** They all say.

It seems that they were both in need of some corrections. Y/N compels her bones to move again, creaking ever-so slightly while she shuffles awkwardly to the main panel. Her fingers swipe upwards, displaying the blank reaches of their mapped system—from the sun to Pluto—and hastily inputs an overlay of dark matter. The bridge works instantaneously, linking the unfilled passages with threads of dark ropes and blotches. The data materializes into spheres, vessels, and other unknown shapes.

Tony lets out a small breath, eyes drawn over the spherical image of Amis.

It’s the universe.

Or _most_ of it, anyway.

Y/N clasps her hands together, shuddering when she sees her home planet made of lights and electrical fragments. They did it, she smiles crookedly, finally. There are traces of other presences as well, realms out in the further beyond that cannot be reached yet, not with Earth’s undeveloped technologies. Y/N views the world in a new perspective, as if she’s looking through Fury’s eye that seems the utmost pleased with the results. Now, they can watch each other; trust each other. The director unexpectedly clasps the half-blood’s shoulder and musters the smallest of smiles.

“Good work, Amisian,” Fury pulls away, sending a nod to the other fellow humans who stiffen, “Our superintendence division will take it from here. Get some rest. And get me a new orange.”

Tony and Bruce mutter their respective, fearful agreements, rushing out of the conference hall before Fury does who returns to his morose mien. He doesn’t bid Y/N farewell, and she honestly preferred he didn’t. Despite seeing each other in this new light, the realization hits her as soon as the door closes; they’re watching her now. Earth can see beyond their system now. What comes next? What would they do if the Amisians were suddenly viewed as the enemy? Y/N only thinks of hopeful prayers, wishing that the Avengers would speak out against laying a siege.

She wouldn’t know what to do if she fought them. At least, that’s what she believed.

“You’re quite a long way from home, aren’t you?”

A man had taken her seat, swiveling around the cushion to see her astonished face. She didn’t even hear anyone come in. His legs propped up on the long-table, donning heavy tactical boots that have certainly had its days—bits of mud and scuffs on the soles—dressed in tactical gear that Y/N deduced him as a fellow assassin or spy like Natasha. What was strange, however, was the quiver and bow strapped behind his back.

Did S.H.I.E.L.D. have their own rangers like Amisians? Or were their archers a different faction altogether.

“Last time I came face to face with one of your kind, their mind control made me go haywire. Wasn’t at all pleasant.” His voice was smooth and silvery, laced with playful intent, but as keen as Y/N was, she could hear the increments of resentment.

“Well, you’re obviously mistaken,” Y/N admonishes mirthlessly, “My _kind_ doesn’t do such a thing. We don’t enforce such sloppy methods on our victims, especially when they’re not much use to us with false information. We have much more effective ways.”

This agent seemed to be a regular jokester, being as how so easily he laughed off her low effort warning. He slid his dirty boots off of the table, hands sliding across his back to pull out a stray arrow. It was unlike any arrow she had ever seen; black and sleek, purely industrial, like a multi-purpose tool. It twirled between his fingers, spinning the weapon as he strode to meet her height. Dirty blonde hair, almost completely brown, slate-blue eyes that gleamed with all kinds of roguery.

They followed every sway of her movements easily, perfectly—a natural-born marksman.

“The name’s _Clint Barton._ They call me _Hawkeye,”_ The bladed tip of the arrow extends to her, keen eyes expectant, “The _best_ Avenger.”

Y/N breathes to steel her nerves, grabbing hold of the tip before giving it a polite shake, “Y/N Skaraeith. They call me the Wild Star. The _best_ Amisian.”

The difference between the two of them was that all of her statements were actually true.

“Missed you at the party last night,” Clint spins the arrow and flips it back into his quiver as soon as Y/N lets it go, “Have to say, you’re quite the drinker.”

Y/N gives a near wince, beginning to shuffle towards her layout of various folders, packing them up, “This planet’s liquor can barely make me tipsy. And I wasn’t doing so well under all that pressure. I kind of needed that buzz.”

“You were pressured by being around so many humans?”

“Pressured to be myself,” Y/N corrects, finished tidying up the conference room, “I know humans are already weary enough about the unknown expanse of the universe, I didn’t want to provoke them by being foolish in the same room as them.”

Clint nods slowly, appeased by the thought of an alien being on their best behavior—or whatever was the equivalent. He hasn’t thought much of the Amisian quite yet, eyeing her down and trying to draw anything conclusive or skeptical. But as he found none, her movements calm and the tone of her voice unmistakably meek, she just appeared like a regular human. Her presence, however, was the most striking thing. He wondered what he would’ve seen if she was _‘being herself’_ that night, if it radiated blindingly, like the sun.

“Well, you shouldn’t have to worry about yourself while you’re with me. I tend to hold quite the reputation…even without Tony.”

“Oh, I can tell,” She says with a near smile, “This team of yours…it’s very… _unique.”_

Clint makes his way towards the door, giving a chaste salute, “You could see just how unique we are over a round of drinks together, next time. I’ll see you around, Wild Star.”

And with that, Y/N found herself alone again. A smile graced the corners of her lips, yet again finding this world a new ordeal all on its own.

“Catch you later, Hawkeye.”

  
  
  


『✭』

  
  
  


**_Why?_ ** _Why was this happening now?_

Grey Blood was already shedding his scales, Y/N tilted her head upon seeing the various shiny grey and black plates sprinkled on the floor, perturbed upon the muffled growling resonance coming from her quarters. She thought worriedly of her grey getting too big for the complex, becoming fearful he might demolish the complex entirely by his size. He was a beast from Sinrior, the Elseland, there was no telling how fast and how big he could grow, as their species was extraordinarily wild and fierce. They were among the mightiest beasts for a reason, and Grey Blood was already very large for his age. Earth was certainly beginning to change him—the both of them.

“Grey Blood?” Y/N called as she gently pushed open the door to her guest room, greeted by the sight of a shadow of red and black.

Her mind pulses painfully at the image, her heart dropping to the pit of her stomach as she looks on in some form of fear and hurt. Some binding force threatens her not to move, to be reverent towards this being who does not sway their head to her, and growls while they gnaw the bones off of some poor, feathered animal. Its mangled corpse was sheared in half, one portion dangling upon the window sill of her room, while the other hung outside of the building.

  
  


_Did it follow me here?_ Y/N quietly asks herself, _did the_ _Eidolon_ _follow me here?_

  
  


_Was this a corporeal form? Or was this just another vivid memory?_

Blood pools to her feet, dripping in long, thick ropes that soak into her white socks. Her hands tremble at the touch of something warm, something is moving against her, someone large and has the smell of smoke. Her eyes are too blurred with tears to see just what had bled in front of her, a choked noise escaping the back of her throat as she knows they have moved away.

_Have you truly forgotten me?_ Y/N asks, _or have you come unwillingly?_

**_Don’t be so obscene._ **

Reality comes back down to her like rain—a storming rain. Y/N looks down, seeing the snout of her grey blow a thick cloud of black smoke into her pearly eyes. She is blazing and weak as she traced the lines of his horns, gripping a hold of them, feeling the tough blackened projections rumble in her palms. She hadn’t noticed that they have grown twice their size. Grey Blood has become the size of a mid-grown orti, from size of a small hound. He is purring innocently, as if he hadn’t killed an animal at all. It was a white owl, as Y/N glanced at the shredded creature from a distance, a big one, too.

It must’ve triggered this big of a growth spurt, especially since he hasn’t eaten for two days now.

“You mongrel…” Y/N scolds softly, reeling her forehead from Grey Blood’s, glaring into pools of molten gold, “You should have waited for me. You can’t just do this whenever you please. We’re guests here.”

Some say that dragons are just as clever as Amisians, but Y/N finds the trait questionable as her grey only brushes his bloody snout back against her nose.

_For a moment,_ Y/N thinks fleetingly, _I thought I saw…_

“Come, Grey Blood,” Y/N interrupts her proceeding thoughts before ushering her grey with a smile, “We’ll go to the balcony and you can fly to the sea. There’ll be plenty of fish, so you won’t have to go ripping other flying creatures apart.”

The beast is already ahead of her, his much larger form scampering through the end of the corridor and back to the common room. Y/N almost has it in her to chuckle, instead finding herself staring solemnly at the poor bird at her window. She trudges through the blood, hands curling crookedly to collect the pools. Red swirls in frighteningly benevolent streams, where Y/N breathes shakily as she purifies the liquid into pure water. It was a technique that had taken her years to perfect, and each time she does it, it doesn’t get any easier.

She peeks her head out of the window, cupping her hands to her mouth before blowing the water to the atmosphere, where it had turned to mist. Y/N returns the bird to the wind in an easier form, and intends to bury the corpse in the earth. It’s better than nothing.

Y/N hastily makes her way to the balcony upon hearing a much louder and ferocious roar that echoes from Grey Blood, a much harsher and impatient song. She yields to his wild nature and lets him soar as soon as she opens the door. Grey Blood tests his much larger wings, light barely beaming through the slate-blue membrane. He is much more vocal now, his growls rumbling deep and vast as he performs a low dip above Y/N’s head, and she assumes he does so in an attempt to lift her spirits before he was off to the ocean.

Instead, her stomach rumbles, and she bids Grey Blood a farewell and a promise that she would be back before nightfall.

There is truly no one familiar in these lands. There are no old gods here.

Their spirits were surely not in this place, for they did not dwell in loud, bustling places where tops grey and black towers erected into the white. They much preferred the company of quieter men, suffering women, and naive children—this place kind of cuts close. They were not among the streets that were overcrowded with mindless, fragile beings, somber in their speech as they had just suffered through a light drizzle that hit the asphalt beneath their legs. It was still hot and warming the soles of Y/N’s boots, of whom decided to trudge through the city of New York without a destination in mind. She decided to see what her journey of soul searching had in store for her, and clearly, it seemed that she wasn’t supposed to spend it here.

Her leisurely stroll had taken her to a place called Times Square, a place that was recommended to her by Natasha, who would have wanted to act as a guide but had left the state on a mission. She disappeared into an air vessel known as a Quinjet, remembering the dull roar of the engine before it faded into the sky. It made her a little sad, but Y/N understood the commitment to her duties.

Y/N wandered through the aimless streets that were bordered by stacked shops, they looked nothing like the bazaars she frequently visited in the Echealion, nor any other region of Amis. The buildings are tall and made of moving pictures. Like moths attracted to a flame, there are numerous packs of humans around them, intrigued by the pixelated visuals. The wheeled-machines frightened her, blasting their loud horns whenever she accidentally stumbled in their way. The roads were marked with guidance, but Y/N had found that they were not for her.

She didn’t have a place to go, not particularly.

Y/N reached a place of quiet, finally, sliding onto a nearby bench and tried to melt down the tension in her spine. She observed too many things and understood little of it, experiencing what she assumed was a ‘sensory-overload’, something that she had been warned about whenever her father took her to other realms and planets. She never did have an easy time adjusting to new places, and Earth was unfortunately, one of them. This place was just too much, and she grimaced at the fact that she would have to endure its night.

_I’m still hungry,_ Y/N thought, carding her fingers through her hair.

However, the toll of malnutrition was sinking deeper and harder into her psyche, and Y/N was left clueless on where she could eat.

A child ran to her legs, giggling and gallant, hoping from one concrete tile to the other. It was a little girl. Y/N blinked at the sudden appearance of the tiny human, tucking her legs into her chest when the human lingered curiously, staring at the Amisian. She swallowed down this sudden fear for children, wiggling her fingers awkwardly, a skittish smile adorning her lips.

“Um…hello… _little human.”_ Her trembling voice did nothing to slake the intrigue in this little girl, who came closer and quizzically blinked.

“You’re the lady I saw on the TV,” She chirped, pointing at the high-rise buildings that flashed multiple colors and objects, even other human faces, another needless human oddity, “You’re from outer-space. You’re pretty, like a princess.”

_Okay,_ Y/N drawled, _so she isn’t frightened of me._

A part of her easily came to relax, she almost chuckled because of such a predicament. There wasn’t any difference in this little human girl and her siblings of whom she missed dearly, they were still bright and joyous with innocence, deprived from the knowledge of what Y/N did to get here—what she did to survive. The whispers of history reached no ears but hers, everyday, on repeat, keeping her from a peaceful slumber. This human child was worlds away from that, and Y/N wished that such a thing could continue.

“Well, you are very smart,” Y/N began gently, her fingers beginning to curl, “You’re right. I am a princess,”

The apples in the child’s cheeks ripens, freckle blemishes curling with her mouth, the biggest grin that Y/N had ever seen. She gasped and jumped, and did a small laugh that brought out a laugh from Y/N’s chest, genuine and soft.

“Say, since you’re such a smart little human, and I’m not really well acquainted with these parts…Do you know where I could find something to eat?”

The girl put a finger to her lip, pouting hard in thought, “My mommy says that all my dinners and snacks come from the supermarket. It’s this huge place with a giant apple on the window!”

_Humans really are simplistic creatures, aren’t they?_

Y/N’s hands worked faster, swirling to gather what rain hadn’t evaporated on the heated concrete, shaping the pellets of water into a single clear flower. Saying the child was amazed seemed to be an understatement, practically enthralled by Y/N entirely as it shuddered into ice.

“Thank you, sweet little human.”

But yet, the drastic change of her frown was so quick.

“You’re lucky,” The girl admitted, slowly taking the flower from Y/N’s offered hands, “I wish I could be a princess. I could never be as pretty as you.”

Y/N blinked, reaching forward to ruffle the girl’s auburn hair, “Being yourself is better than being a princess.”

A pair of humans were coming their way, a woman and a man, presumably the girl’s parents. Y/N did not want to give the wrong impression, and decided to slip off of the bench. She took her eyes away from the girl, but not before giving a blazing smile. She doesn’t look any different than an Amisian child, but sadly, Y/N knows that she’ll never remember her own face. Such a curse had been bestowed in her mind centuries ago, and every day, whenever there’s a new face to greet, Y/N blurs it all.

“And no…You’re much prettier.”

Y/N makes her way across the street, heeding to the electrical panel’s permission light that blinks white in the shape of a person. She isn’t the first one there, merging with a crowd of humans that look at anywhere but her, and Y/N is relieved at that. She wants to turn back to the girl and her ice flower, but she knows that the human is already gone. As long as Y/N remains alive, the flower will never become a puddle. The practice was as easy as walking, blending with the humans that traversed so routinely through the streets.

Y/N frowned at it all.

Every minuscule of her Amisian thinking warned her that such a thing was fleeting; human life was not as prosperous as Y/N wanted to believe it could be.

She found the supermarket after the third block or so. The shop was called _‘Trader Joe’s’_ and the inside seemed much worse than the outside streets of New York. The aisles were crowded in much more narrow spaces, lines of humans came and went, creating chaos with their eyes and grazes. There were rows of human nourishment, packed in boxes and bags, some wrapped in clear paper and kept in frozen coolers. Why were there so many brands for the same product? Y/N shakes her head, deciding to inspect the fruits and vegetables that caught her peripheral, deciding on something light.

There were at least a hundred different fruits to choose from. Avocados, strawberries, bananas, oranges, lemons, cherries, celery, spinach, radishes, parsnips…Is their harvests really this plentiful year-round? As Y/N strides down the length of stands that are filled to the rim with goods, her eyes spot a particularly ripe apple, eager to reach it on her toes as the fruit rests on a particularly high shelf. However, as the pads of her fingers brush against the red, her nose crinkles upon the realization that she doesn’t have human currency. Y/N brings the hand down to slap the middle of her forehead, oblivious to the number of strange looks.

Y/N drags her hand down to tug at her mouth, gnawing aimlessly as she looks down to a reflection in a metallic sliver in the shelf. She doesn’t look like herself, assuming she knew what that meant in the first place, she doesn’t feel ready to belong yet.

Y/N tries to remain resilient against the tears that sting her eyes again, fearing she might not ever belong.

To make matters worse, there was a short rain that drenched her hair, courtesy of the hourly sprinklers that kept these forbidden fruits fresh. The top of her head and shoulders were soaked, now she undoubtedly looked worse. These uncontrolled waters had done the trick to push her right over the edge. Those tears she tried holding back were flowing now, dripping into her clenched fists as she tried to shield her face from the public.

_Oh, gods. Don’t cry, don’t cry in front of everyone. You should be used to this. You should be used to other places by now. You’re not a child anymore. Father isn’t here anymore and you have to help yourself. Stop it. Stop it._

_“Y/N?”_ A concerned voice called out, _“Y/N Skaraeith?”_

Y/N turned around, head devoid of the once badgering thoughts that nearly consumed her whole, blinking widely and tearfully at the sight of Steve Rogers, dressed in what she could assume was a disguise; ball-cap, a set of fake specs, a hoodie, and the most tacky pair of sweats she had ever seen on a human. Her mind blanked before the snort came out of her sob. And as soon as she saw his sneakers, Steve seemed to have caught the message and chuckled, too.

“JARVIS said I could find you here,” Steve says with a soft frown, reaching out his thumb to brush away the stray tears, “But, I guess the old A.I. didn’t suspect I’d find you here in tears.”

Y/N raises her brows, remembering the frequent name that Tony had called out numerous times as he was in the building, assuming that the name JARVIS was Tony’s own artificial intelligence, “I’m sorry, I was just…stuck in my head there for a moment. It doesn’t happen very often.”

“Well, I should hope not. Otherwise, it’d be weird finding you crying over the fruits and vegetables aisle,” Steve reaches over, plucking the apple she tried to take with a smile, “You buying?”

“I was going to but…no,” Y/N folds her arms, a defeated pout on her lips, “I realized after coming here that I…don’t have human currency. I only have units. But I know for a fact that Earth doesn’t accept that here.”

Steve nods, placing the apple in the basket tucked under his arm, alongside a staggering amount of other food items, “No, we sure don’t. I haven’t heard that one before. Sounds much more practical than coins and dollar bills, though.”

“What are you doing here? I thought you went with Natasha on her mission.”

“Nah,” Steve shrugs, beginning to tread down the aisle, “Fury got word of our little contest last night and decided that I should take the day off. It was surprising, really. You’ve been doing that quite a lot lately.”

Y/N giggles behind her hand, “I have that kind of reputation, don’t I?”

She doesn’t understand how Steve pays for his groceries with small scraps of paper, or how he can muscle each other out of the crowd of people while holding a quite formidable brown bag stuffed with items. She practically clings to him as they stumble out through the automatic doors. She is continuously amazed by the humans, knowing that a great deal of other non enhanced beings could do the same things he had done, astounded by their routinely resilience. It was strange, walking out of the store and facing New York with someone at her side. The streets abate for her will, where she finds Steve’s towering figure like her very own beacon of presence, and people are much more spacious now. They move out of the way of this gentle giant, and out of her’s.

Y/N finds herself warmed to the revelation that she just needed someone to guide her. And she isn’t at all smitten with asking someone like Steve Rogers for help.

But she is cautious of suffering another welt if she does something out of line.

“I saw Grey Blood flying around while I was coming here,” Steve says, almost halting Y/N in her tracks when she is reminded of the growing beast, “I thought it was an albatross or something though, he looked huge. Wasn’t sure if it was him until he flew back to the tower with a giant tuna in his mouth.”

Y/N nods, relieved that Grey Blood hadn't killed any more aviary creatures, “Yes, he’s beginning to go through a growth spurt. It was quite troubling actually…I caught him eating an owl and thought I was disturbing him. Dragons can be like that, at time; _territorial.”_

Steve nods thoughtfully, imagining the traits of other beasts that Amis harbored, finding that they could be smarter or more terrible than man, “Well, since he just flew across Manhattan with a five-hundred-pound fish in his mouth, why don’t we go back to my apartment and let him eat in peace?”

“You have your own place?” Y/N raises a brow, blinking widely at the apple that she had wanted, taking it hesitantly when Steve offers it to her.

“I’ve made good progress in getting used to the world. If you’d like, I could teach you some things.”

When Y/N sinks her teeth into the fruit, munching on the juices that flooded her worries away, she gives a beaming grin.

“By all means, _Captain._ Lead the way.”

  
  
  


『✭』

  
  
  


“I don’t understand,” Y/N mutters, pointing confusedly at the animated woman who leapt into the arms of the prince, “If the prince was so in love with this woman, why didn’t he remember her face? Why go through the trouble of trying to fit a glass slipper of every woman in the kingdom? And how does no one in this kingdom have at least _one_ other girl with the same shoe size?”

The colorful screen on the box was immensely intriguing, as if each passing image was sucking the focus out of her, building more and more questions to ask Steve as he stationed himself in front of the burning stove. The apartment was little and quaint, but most importantly, it was quiet. The Amisian had nestled herself on the floor in a fort of blankets and pillows, as Steve refuted he would’ve bought quilts if they were on sale—whatever that meant.

The apple had been demolished ages ago and the core rested in her palm, her thumb occasionally flicking against the steam. She was told to wait a few more minutes for the stir-fry to finish grilling as a proper dinner, and Y/N whined every-so often whenever a delicious waft drifted over her head. But, as Steve constantly reminded her; she couldn’t eat it until it was ready. The food was practically singing to her, and Y/N was the utmost eager to try new things. Earth was similar to Amisian cuisine, but there was less plastic and packaging, something that the world didn’t really agree on, apparently.

Steve shrugged his shoulders, propping his hands on the counter as he leaned to get a better view of the television, as he called it, a bright grin across his face, “The world likes to romanticize fate. It makes the world dreamier and makes everyone feel like they’re looking at the world through rose-tinted glasses.”

Y/N sharpens her glare, “Fate…I despise it.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees somberly, switching off the knob of the stove, distinguishing the blue flames, “Fate and destiny have certainly spurned me once or twice. Happened in my earlier days though.”

Y/N finally manages to pull her eyes away from the television, observing his rigid and stiff back from behind the counter. She frowns somewhat, realizing that she hadn’t really known that much about the Captain, what he was and how he had managed to come this far. Most humans died of old age when they were around eighty or ninety, while it was a rare thing for Amisians to die naturally altogether. He looked unfathomably young and striking, yet she fears to ask for the memory.

Her legs shift under her, tucked comfortably below her back, “Me, too. I think most of the bad days happen when we’re young. I guess it’s easier for fate and destiny though…because we’re young and stupid at the time. And we don’t really know how to handle it.”

Steve wholeheartedly agrees, nodding at the Amisian’s wisdom, “I could barely handle it. I was sick for most of my life.”

“You were sick?”

“Happened more often up until I was about sixteen,” Steve reveals solemnly, removing the pan and emptying the food onto two plates, _“Asthma, high blood pressure, scarlet fever,_ loads more. I wasn’t able to enlist in the army because of it.”

Y/N offers a frown of sympathy, “That must have been terrible. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all in the past, now,” Steve brushes off, eyes lingering onto the television, “Everything is.”

Before Y/N could ask if he was alright, Steve was already coming through the kitchen frame, two steaming plates in each hand. The vegetables are a tad bit too oily and Steve may have dumped the entire dispenser of sesame seeds into the mix, but Y/N didn’t have a single complaint as she took her first bite into the meal. She waved the tip of her fork teasingly, winking at the soldier who could’ve been a chef in his previous life, as he sunk down onto the floor with her, not bothering with the couch against his back.

“I’m impressed, Captain Rogers,” Y/N swallows before gathering another load of vegetables for her next bite, “I’m always impressed, in fact. You humans have so many talents.”

“I don’t consider my hobby epitomizing the talents of the human race but…” Steve gives a smirk as he puts on another _Disney_ animated film, “I appreciate the compliment.”

This time, it’s the story of a young man from a land called _Agrabah_. He is supposedly a Diamond in the Rough, a metaphor, obviously. Y/N’s expression pinches as she watches a particular scene, having moved on from dinner and indulged into a hefty amount of dessert; packaged small cakes and frozen dairy cream in tubs. With a spoon in hand, streaked at the tip with vanilla white, she points at the princess Jasmine as she argues with her father about marriage.

_This was nice,_ Y/N thinks calmly, _relaxing and doing nothing._

“It’s scary how accurate these films can be.” She mumbles, causing Steve’s head to shift against the couch cushion, chewing on an Oreo.

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t tell you because of our situation,” Y/N began, offering a biting grin to Steve who immediately sees through the facade, noticing yet another glisten of pearls at the corners of her eyes, “That man who led us to Norrath, _Cyreus_ …he was supposed to be my husband.”

And immediately, Steve Rogers is hopped up on the sugar that bursts in his veins, “You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m serious,” Y/N utters softly, rolling her head closer to Steve’s shoulder, “He’s the son of the Norrathian lord. My father said that if I married him, I’d be tamed or something. I didn’t know what that meant…but clearly, he was wrong,”

Steve wipes away the stray tear that rolls down her cheek, “He’s gone, anyway. They both are.”

His name was Cyreus, he remembered, and had a sister named Marinella. It was a little strange though, marrying someone who was of royalty and had a reputation of having a volatile nature. He wondered if it happened normally in her world and questioned intimacy altogether. His spine shuddered as he remembered Y/N this morning; terribly naive and not at all explicit as she straddled him still. Y/N didn’t seem openly prone to intimacy and romanticization, being that she despised the last _Cinderella_ film so much. But Steve figured she just hasn’t met the right person yet.

Lord knows he did, and Steve dreads it every day.

“I met this gal,” Steve begins, stuffing another Oreo in his mouth, barely paying attention to the film anymore, “I met her before the experiment. She was quite something.”

Y/N tilts her head, “Has she…”

“No, the last I heard she’s alive,” Steve reveals with a small smile, remembering the old file he had requested to see, tracing the printed ink that spelt _‘London’,_ “She’s retired. It’s a real shame though, I was supposed to…take her out dancing after the war.”

Suddenly, Y/N makes a loud snort after finishing her entire tub of ice cream. Sorbet syrup widens the smile she has at one corner of her lip, and Steve doesn’t know whether to laugh with her or feel offended. He hangs helplessly in the silence, waiting for an answer that would shove him out of his curiosities between humans and Amisians, again. It seemed to be happening a lot recently, this must’ve been the fiftieth time he was left clueless about this laughing wildling. 

“I don’t understand it,” Y/N finally says through her giggles, “We’re all so much alike and yet so different. I absolutely hate dancing and you seem to charm the human ladies with them! Yet, I am apparently a very skilled dancer and it sounds like you are the worst one in the world,”

Y/N straightens her posture upright when Steve throws her a poor glare.

“I mean, even if you were enhanced and well, I couldn’t imagine you being the best at it because you were so sick most of your life. And fighting.”

The scent of cold oil sitting on ceramic plates makes the irksome spark his chest simmer. There is hardly any food left, and Steve grimaces of suffering through yet another grocery store trip tomorrow. Although his timidity would never be anything more than an occasional bold streak, Steve doesn’t want to run through it without Y/N. He has come to enjoy her company and finds it so easily to reveal things he tried to keep swallowed for so long. It may be the fact that she was a soldier, too, who has fought an ungodly amount of more wars than him. 

But Y/N herself knows that someone, anyone should never go through any in the first place.

She is made of light, it seems, glowing softly yet is of a wild blaze at the same time. Y/N is the epitome of the ethereal beauty, and Steve doubts that anything could ever change that. She could be broken, beaten, and bruised, and she would still not look anything like a human—hardly an Amisian, at that. It was hard to imagine someone else’s blood running down her arms and dripping off of her elbows, and yet he is frightened of her when she comes in close again.

Steve remembers her saying something about wanting to be in control, and he fears he might snap under the pressure of her hand. He doesn’t want to be the successful result of what she tried to do with Natasha.

Steve suspects that she is also made of darkness, too.

And yet, he doesn’t complain when she gets up and offers a hand to him.

“Come on,” She beckons, her voice echoing within every inch of the flat, “I’ll teach you to dance.”

Steve’s brows come into a tight furrow, _“I don’t want to step—“_

_**Don’t be so obscene**_ , something tells him, like a voice echoing inside his very soul, ushering himself to get up on his feet, _**don’t make the same mistake.** _

“—Maybe some other time,” He says quietly, picking up the plates soaked in cold oil, “Don’t really feel like it.”

Y/N lets him amble towards the kitchen, nearly stumbling when his heel stomps hard on the wooden floors, where she is mindful of the neighbors downstairs and hopes he hasn't awoken them. The sound of rushing water from the sink is dull and she pays more attention to the television instead, wondering how many lives were influenced by the twisting of fate that was displayed in this film. She detested the final scene from the movie; the newly-appointed prince with his wife as they flew off on a magic carpet into the moon. 

Y/N blinked, her mind in dissonance after suddenly thinking of Krow.

_Why would she think of_ ** _him_** _ **?** _He was the least of her problems right now. Y/N spurned every part of him, or at least that’s what she told herself. She tries to get rid of the swarming cloud by crinkling the plastic snack wrappings under her fist, her teeth baring to gnaw bitterly at her lip. The vindictive thoughts of her once beloved friend seemed to consume her whole once again, and she sought desperately to thwart away from such things. 

_Curse him,_ Y/N snarls, _curse them all._

The television had ceased into a fizzing black, where its vibrant images couldn’t distract her or suck them away. She glared at such a needless contraption and how so easily was entranced by it. She turned to Steve who had finished folding the many blankets and tossed around the pillows, sending a questioning look when Y/N showed him her morose face. 

Instead of being smitten with worry, he was cautious of her intent.

“So, you don’t want to dance,” Y/N rolls her head along her shoulders, and Steve’s expression falls at the sound of a chorus of cracks, fearful of the ire in her voice, “Then, how about showing me some other moves?”

_Yes,_ Steve thinks as he is suddenly tackled into the kitchen, _she is made of light, darkness, and fueled on an angry sugar rush._

They went crashing onto the floor of the kitchen, wrangling with each other’s limbs, completely unworried now of whether or not they were disturbing their neighbors downstairs with their mere footprints. Toppling over one another, the Terran and Amisian fought to prove some kind of useless dominance, running on ice cream, six Oreos, two sodas each, and the nutritious values of an oily stir fry dinner. Their valor were at equals, and Steve was trying to figure out whether or not Y/N was doing this out of spite for not dancing with him or if she was truly and utterly bored out of her mind.

Grey Blood must’ve finished his meal by now, and he was probably only waiting for her to come back while picking off whatever juices are left on the fish’s bones.

However, as Y/N came straddling on top of him once more, he concluded that she didn’t want to go back to the tower. She didn’t want to face the deafening silence alone, not like how when she was supposedly wandering the streets of New York this afternoon. And it certainly didn’t get any better at night. 

He figured he might as well entertain the both of them in the meantime.

His hands fell on either side of her thighs before hauling his spine forward, slamming her back into the floor while her legs hooked vicely around his neck. For a second, Steve was afraid if there was damage in the flooring, not wanting to lose his security deposit. His knees dug into the floor to save himself from the forceful weight pushing on his shoulders, his neck was red and his veins were visible from the shadows near her calves. Y/N didn’t at all let up on her strength, and neither did Steve.

For once, they could truly go all out.

They were writhing and thrashing, biting and snarling—border-line animalistic—but neither cared, at all. Steve Rogers had truly never felt this way before, mused with the idea that only within the electrifying presence of the Amisian was the only real link to this kempt savagery. His other rough palm slid upwards to support the pressure of her thighs, where his shortly-kept nails created an impressive onslaught in her nylon trousers; ripping them in three marks. 

In her skin was a galaxy of crescent moons. The marks make Steve rouse a shocking sound, thundering throughout his and Y/N’s body that squirms to, and she is completely floored by it.

“Steven Grant Rogers. Did you just _growl_ at me?”

On the spur of the moment, all recognition of what had been taking place in his innocent and quaint little apartment hits him like a truck. His grip loosens and he reddens when Y/N sucks in a breath when he takes his talon-like nails away, his palms jolting out of place as Steve is frantic to remove himself. How dare he? Steve is trying to catch up with reality, no longer immersed with bantering brutality.

“S-Sorry, I—“

_“_ — _Good,”_ Y/N suddenly interrupts, twisting herself tighter around Steve’s neck, almost slamming him face-first into the floor and breaking his nose again, had he not caught himself by the end of his elbows, “Now, you’re starting to get serious.”

Y/N rolled her shoulders deeper into the floor in an attempt to drive her hips upward easily, snarling when Steve promptly shoved his elbow into her waist, bringing her down onto her back again. He slides himself closer and pins her by collarbone downward, his driven slate-blue eyes flickering when he feels Y/N wiggle under his weight. She lets his palm smack against her cheek before she sinks her teeth into the back of his hand, laughing grittily at the gasp he makes.

Steve wants to assume this is payback for head butting her in the face, but he can’t verbally prove his theory.

The Amisian and the human finally remove themselves from the floor, albeit in a rough tangle. Y/N is given all the time she needs before Steve raises his head, catching his breath. Damn, was she flexible.

The second the soldier looks up to view his attacker, he was met with a slap against his cheek. 

Steve gaped from it, the force was so staggering and sudden that he stumbled backward while panting. Y/N, who had just realized what she had done, adorns a horrified smile, backing away when Steve slowly turns to her, a red mark burning the side of his cheek.

Oh, damn. 

“E-easy, you big dope.”

_Oh, damn._

“You wanna dance?” He asked hotly, gripping the half-blood by her hips, “Fine. Let’s dance.”

**_Oh, damn!_**

The soldier grasped the small of her back, and took advantage of her distractive reaction; a shiver upon feeling his palm slide upwards, and just barely slip under her shirt—skin against skin. He felt as if he had touched solid fire or some kind of wall of electricity, and Steve threw her onto the couch because of it. His palm rolled with the warmth, asking once more if she was quite literally made of light.

She rolled out of the nest of comforters and pillows, a crazed and delightfully playful smile exchanged between the two. She came up on her knees, hands out in front of her chest, ready to catch Steve’s weight as he readied himself to break out into a full-blown sprint. The second his heel came up in the air, however, there was a loud, metallic sound that resonated within the flat. It successfully broke Steve out of his runner’s pose to take a glance at the ringing phone at the nightstand, where Y/N had been distracted by it, too.

Yet, the noise wasn’t able to stop Steve from running, where the two ended up unprepared to handle each other’s impact. They crashed one last time into each other, falling onto the couch and rolling half-way onto the floor, groaning and hissing at the various blooming welts of pain in their body.

Steve excused himself immediately with a silent apology, rubbing the pinching end of his spine as Y/N seemed to have forgotten to move her foot from there, practically yanking the phone from the receiver, “Hello?”

**_“You two seem to be having fun,”_** Fury’s voice buzzed amusedly from the other end of the line, **_“Should I give you two lovebirds a couple more minutes alone?”_**

Steve’s glare hardens at the thought, “You know it’s not like that.”

**_“I should hope not. Not when there’s work for Y/N to do. Tell her something’s come up and to meet me in conference room A in fifteen minutes.”_**

Before Steve can mutter a word of confirmation and deliver the instructions, he takes a glance back over his shoulder, finding Y/N already at the door, tying on her boots. She looks back at him, too, shrugging innocently as she points to the television, displaying a bright blue and white message of Fury’s same orders that seemed to have been there for a while. It seems they were too ‘busy’ to notice it.

**_“Make sure to send her back with pants, Cap.”_ **

_“Goodnight, Fury.”_ Steve grumbles, slamming the phone back into the receiver.

  
  
  


『✭』

  
  
  


The way back to the Avengers Tower from Steve’s apartment was quite the harrowing experience. 

These streets were riddled with every imaginable vibrancy in the night, the sky polluted with its glow, and Y/N was a bit distressed that she could not see any figment of stars in this electric city. She could hardly see the sky at all, where black towers with dark windows were more occasional the presence of any clouds. She wonders how people could live like this—devoid of nature—but not at all acted as some force of judgement. She _innocently_ wondered, just thought.

She entered the building and was greeted by barely recognizable faces. They knew her, or knew what to think of her based on her appearance. Y/N assumed the wildfire of rumors spread far and wide, most likely a very common thing to transpire after a single, unfortunate night. The tolls of her harmless wounds were numb in her footsteps, journeying up the flight of stairs that she opted to take instead of the elevator. She wasn’t completely open to the idea of being in such an enclosed space with humans quite yet, and it seemed the agents thought the same thing, too.

Conference room A was found on the third floor, the first door to the right and was absolutely packed with other agents and supervisors. They were apparently the superintendence division that Fury mentioned earlier this afternoon, finding their stares all the more distressful while Y/N shuffled her way towards the director who was at the front of the room. There was nobody she knew here, assuming that either Tony wasn’t called to this meeting at all or that he was just going to be a few minutes late again. 

Y/N’s heart sunk into her chest when Fury already began to address his fellow employers in the room, giving his brief introductions before beginning to flip through yet another slideshow on a television screen. They were really fond of these machines, weren’t they? 

Upon the first image, there was the same interstellar map that Y/N had worked on with Tony and Bruce today, displayed onto the screen with some sort of ominous mark at the side of an unknown sphere. She traced the image for any familiarity, trying to feel for some sort of burning resonance in her deeper memories. Though her mind was capable of blurring faces of little importance, she could never seem to forget the atmospheres and scenic views of the different planets—she blamed such a thing on her escapism.

“At five-fifteen this evening, there was a quantum surge of highly concentrated heat signatures on this planet,” Fury explains, pointing at the image of orange and blue, the highlighted sprinkles of yellows are what Y/N assumed to be air vessels, “We aren’t quite sure if it is another _hapless_ distress signal, but just to be safe that the source won’t spread to our reaches of the universe, I’m preparing another reconnaissance mission.”

There it is again; the sea of murmuring waves that humans are creatures of habit to. She is lost and deprived of direction when Fury rests his hand suddenly on her shoulder. She turns to him, brows twisted together when she sees the hesitant look he is painted with, and Y/N suddenly knows it won’t be the last.

“Miss Y/N Skaraeith of planet Amis doesn’t seem to have the entirety of Earth’s trust quite yet,” Fury continues to the board, “Sending her to check out this source will just be another step closer into letting Earth become a part of this bigger universe.”

“Are you sure that’s a good thing, director Fury?” A woman asked from the farther corner of the room, trying to search for any sort of similarly-minded resolve in the room that wasn’t from the flustered Amisian in the room, “If this _alien_ does manage to find the source, assuming if she’s _smart_ enough to even pilot her own ship safely off the roof,”

And, there it was; _the first insult._

“How can we trust her that she won’t just ally with these other aliens and lay a siege on Earth?”

Y/N, in response, turned to share a spitefully horrendous glare to those before her in the room. It seems she was not among cowards or fragile beings that were as minuscule as bacteria, but rather petty rodents that aren’t intimidated by an avian’s talons. The only relieving clarity is the fact that she knows by just one clench of her fist, every molecule of moisture that hovers around the room could tighten around their next, where they would implore to any semblance of her mercy. And some part of her was glad; she wouldn’t spend a _second_ of regretting it.

Y/N blinks the thought away, finding that she had been glaring too long, preferring that the gentler features of her face was a much easier sight to look upon. She wouldn’t want to suffer any premature wrinkles of frail age. She was eons away from such a time.

Besides, she was scaring the humans.

“Even if Miss Y/N Skaraeith wanted to lay a siege against Earth, she can’t,” Fury elaborates, sending his own trademark scowl against the woman who practically melted into the leather of the chair, “She wouldn’t be able to based on our fellow Avenger who already out on the field. His mission is the same as ours; maintaining peace. I’m certain that he would stop her on the spot if she tries anything.”

_How many members exactly was on this Avenger team of theirs?_

So far, she’s met Tony, Steve, Bruce, Natasha, and Clint. How many defenders does this planet _need?_ Y/N’s spirit of inquiry was glowing, practically beaming the glare of curiosity into Director Fury’s back who so painstakingly decided to move on. Bizarrely, everyone within the room seemed to be satisfied with the answer, and did she see a hint of _arrogance in_ their gazes?

“We leave first thing in the morning. Superintendence division will break into two factions. _Faction A,_ the people who will watch Y/N, will meet at the hangar at nine AM tomorrow morning. _Faction B_ will meet here and await further instructions with me,” Fury had finished his briefings promptly before waving his hand towards everyone in the room, giving a dismissive nod, “That’ll be all.”

Everyone seemed to move autonomously, converging in lines with one foot out in front of the other, clearing the premises in fifteen seconds flat, Y/N was utterly amazed at the authority. She gives a meager grin at the director who seems to have wanted her gone, too, but the lackluster amount of information—the person who was the one _risking her life for their sake_ —was unsatisfactory. She shuffled back beside him, arms tight behind her back.

“Director Fury, sir,” Y/N announces, earning a rather impatient glance with his eye-patch, “I was wondering where I was going to be sent to. It’s alright if you don’t know the name of the planet…I could read them out to you and provide a little more information of my own based on the coordinates,”

Fury didn’t move, nor did he seem entirely interested by her proposition.

“If that’s… _alright_ with you.” She added with a fleetingly meek voice, frowning against her bitten lip.

It seemed like hours before Fury finally shifted from his spot, flicking on the projection once more in spectacular visions and a cybernetic chaos of blue and orange. Her eyes immediately follow through the bridge between the Milky Way and their unknown destination, applying with her own wiggling hands, a new overlay of dark matter functions. It was a little difficult, but dark matter had its own uses; acting like a special hidden light that revealed things like invisible ink.

Finally, her eyes laid upon the new set of coordinates, narrowing her eyes at the pixelated and fuzzy numbers; her jaw dropping upon the newly-discovered revelation.

_“Vanaheim,”_ Y/N breathes shakily, stepping away from the realm that she realized was swarmed with enemy vessels, “It’s one of the _Nine Realms_ of the _World Tree.”_

Now, all of a sudden, Fury takes an interest, “You know this place?”

“Very much so,” Y/N enlarges the image, her fists bitterly tightening as the realm is engulfed in various spots of dangerously high heat signatures; fire, “I-I have to go, now! Right now!”

There is no room for further authority in this world, driven by more primordial fear and relations, old comrades that are in danger. She is not better off here, journeying aimlessly and slacking on this planet, at least not yet. Although her heart is perturbed and scorn with the reminder that she must leave without her proper farewells, she hopes Fury, who is yelling her name and commanding her to stand down, will understand after the mania.

She barrels through the stairway as she concludes the clustered elevators are nothing but a grievance. Her steps are thundering against the stretch of stairs that lead her to her guest room in under a minute. She claps her hands for Grey Blood, eyes frantic and feverish to find her grey who would not fare well on his own without her. Y/N slides two fingers to her mouth before invoking a sharp, piercing whistle, and relishes when the low roar of the tired beast echoes through the end of the corridor. 

_“Whoa,”_ A voice that Y/N recognizes as Tony’s comes rushing out from the door of his own room, “What’s with all the ruckus?”

Y/N has no time to give a lengthy explanation, instead deciding to gather what she can of her fittings and slip on her gear, her vambraces strapped tightly around her arms, “I have to go. I’ll be back, soon.”

“You’re just gonna leave without an explanation to Fury?” The sassy tone in his voice is really the last thing she needs, and Y/N does not turn ashamed at the possible scoldings she’d get upon returning, “He’s not gonna let that fly so easily, not like how easily you’re flying away.”

“I’m not _flying away,”_ She stresses through gritted teeth, releasing a heated sigh, “My old comrades are in danger and I can’t just sit here goofing off, rough-housing with Steve—“

_“—You were rough-housing with Steve?—“_

“—Soul searching, and just let my old friends die knowing that I could have saved them!” 

Y/N can’t bear to face him, now. She has cried far too much today and she doesn’t want to shrink down whatever was left of her dignity for as long as she stayed with these humans. The half-blood cannot bring herself to blame them, instead frustrated with her own actions and morals that have beaten her, twisted her, and have been depriving her from any real connections for the last millions of years. For so long, she was driven by her father’s words—Gardenia’s words—and she was not ready yet to break away from them.

Especially while she had no idea where to begin on her own, guised like an aimless storm that only strikes against the sea.

“I’m sorry,” She whispers sadly, “I’ll be back, soon.”

Y/N doesn’t let herself stay for whatever kind of rebuttal Tony has to offer, letting the darkness behind her drown everything out into a sunken and dull roar that merges with Grey Blood’s own. 

His spirits are elevated and so does his form, his wings stretched in a wide expanse that barely fit through the narrow hallway as he takes excited strides towards his companion. She ushers him out of the door, where he has taken his short flight, clever enough on his own to sense her distress. Y/N soothes him in their guide towards the Golden Comet on the roof, frowning as the hatch shrieks in a prolonged hiss as it opens. 

Grey Blood swoops in first, and Y/N looks back at Earth and the Avengers Tower.

_I just need a little more time,_ Y/N tells herself, closing the hatch of her ship and sinks into the pilot seat, staring tearfully at the star-less and harrowing night, _I hope that when I come back, I’ll be ready to rid myself of this guilt._

Y/N flies into the void of space faster than how long it took for the tears to leave her eyes.


	19. Flight of the Anzaar「18」

## 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐢𝐠 𝐀𝐀𝐀'𝐬

_Out in the void of space,_ _**again**._

_You’ve just saved your home planet to come to Earth, only to leave days later to go save some friends on Vanaheim. This was getting old. Was it supposed to get old? Was she supposed to have an opinion about it at all?_

The course of thoughts that Y/N’s mind whizzes past is a malady all on its own, plaguing her with riddles and passages of guilt. There didn’t seem to be an end in sight in the goalless corners of her brain, and it only throbs sorely when Y/N tries to get rid of it. She lets the pain linger, why would she do something like that? The guilt is doing more than just eating away at her, it was moving through her as it rested in her own stomach, guiding her through the stars, and wallowing in the acidic self-pity that became the norm.

_How much longer until I even see Vanaheim?_ Y/N’s thinking is even laced with ire.

_Tinkering_ —that’s all Y/N Skaraeith has done during her flight to the realm of the Vanir—endless _tinkering_. Tinkering with needless human things that she has only introduced yesterday, or two days ago, it was hard to keep track of the days when everything outside the glass was just starry and black. She forfeited that thought, however, as she remembered how New York’s sky had no such thing other than electric, colorful, and contemporary darkness. There were no primordial forces at work there, just the clanking of machines from the many technologies made by the humans— _it was suffocating_ —and Y/N argued whether it was better being in the confinements of her ship alone or being in the spacious Avengers tower with the contrastive humans.

The walls are humming in a mechanical tone, droning endlessly that has become merged with Y/N’s regular spatial hearing, like listening to soundlessly still air. She yearns to feel a breeze that didn’t come from the ventilation system, fighting the displaced chill. If not that, Y/N wants warmth. She wants stability. But she doesn’t know how to get it or what it even looks like.

She wrecked silent havoc with her glares, throwing her belongings with feeble strength, and was careless with her whispers around Grey Blood. The beast is meticulous all on his own, stirring in what Y/N suspects is the night and does not indulge with throwing any bones to keep his energy levels satiated. She dreads whatever this was—self-loathing?—and takes at least a day to put her focus onto reflection.

There is an unforeseen darkness inside her, she’s come to learn, and it had been eager to slake its hunger ever since she had pushed beyond her limits back on her home planet. She suddenly remembers why fighting was rendered into a strict three-month cycle, shuddering at the growl she involuntarily makes as it resents that routine. She hastens in progress, finding that those shifts in her consciousness affected her prowess. She doesn’t dare to let it consume her or override her abilities completely, practicing on mere drops of the stale moisture and some of her blood instead.

Her blood is curling in sinuous forms, still attached to its maker like some macabre umbilical cord, a jagged slice in Y/N’s upper bicep that only brings a sting upon infliction. The knife she had used to carve into her skin rests in the other hand, directing the stream, ready to sever the connection if the amplification of her darkness makes her blood have a mind of its own. 

It’s like tapping her finger against the deepest part of her mind, accessible by using the full volume of her concentration and even more due to only manifesting such a small amount of it. She breathes to steel the assault that comes biting at her nerves, an itching pressure that comes raging at the tip of her fingers. 

Y/N feels its oddity, its power, wrangling through the canyons of control. But she could only let it linger for so long. In an abrupt jerk, the blood stream _snaps_ her wrist backwards. 

_“Gods!“_ Y/N gasps, hunching forward from her knees as her blood wavers from the disruptive commotion, hissing an old curse with the remnants of her breath.

It does more than just itch; it _burns_. It is profoundly scorching, giving the effects of what no ordinary flame should do against her skin. The force thrashes against her, powering through her very bones that are akin to the fighting spirit of a caged beast. It runs through her arm in wisps, this wildfire that licks up her arm is agonizing, but Y/N refuses to let it go.

It’s committed to assert its nature onto Y/N, and she bites back a cry as she comes down on all fours. 

Grey Blood has come from his spot on the lounge sofa, worriedly grazing his snout against her side, trying to push her back up on her knees. He feels the pain, or what Y/N assumes is the presence of her amplification. He responds scornfully by blowing a great cloud of black from the lighter tones of his nose. He reacts to her body as if he is allergic, the tough plates on his chest reverberating with the fierce growl that echoes throughout the ship as he backs away. He crouches on his own fours, his black claws carving into the metal of the flooring while he glares with those reflective golden slits.

He looks like he’s asking what in the world she’s doing, why she smells of such _foulness_ and _corruption_ , and how she can continue to endure the pain it brings.

Y/N does not give her grey any reassurance, trying to push more of her blood back into her arm to extinguish the flames seizing up the entirety of her nerves. Untamed red spills in a larger puddle at her knees, soaking her semi-torn nylon trousers and leather gloves, stirring with the semblances of wispy black—if it was his smoke or her power, Y/N could not tell.

Something flashes against her eyes for a second, brighter than the passing of a nearby star, and hurts her head more than the recent migraine. They come as distractions against the pain, but recognize that they were only pauses in consistency. Her breathing is labored when she feels each pulse of pain and relief, shuddering as the blood at the floor comes rising around her, discovering that it was her own heartbeat.

_What was this?_ She asks herself in the pause from pain, _what is this thing inside me?_

Y/N brings the knife high before slashing it down into the floors, severing the connection.

The brutality is finally ceased of its lesser control, brought down into a harmless sphere that thickens visibly, darker and much more heavy in weight. The pain is finally gone but what hasn’t healed lingers to haunt her. She is fearful of the blood that surges above her hand, feeling its oddity from the other air molecules around it—not caress the air so carelessly—not when she doesn’t even know what it was.

She can’t understand yet, and frankly, she doesn’t want to understand. Such a thing was a burden, a curse. She should never have done such a thing to provoke it. She is afraid of putting it back inside her body.

Y/N harbors a new objective as she solidifies the blood into an involuntary shape; a blade. The next chance she received to go back home, she intended to lock it away in her Vault and traverse to the Great Keep. It was a place of knowledge and archaic secrecy, certain that whatever was within her was curable like a sickness and its own history, wanting to find that cure and make sure it never consumes her again. Or at the very least, she wanted to delay an unknown inevitable fate.

“I’m fine,” She finally rasps as Grey Blood comes by her side, growling softly, shrouding his wings against her, “Don’t worry.”

He can’t help but just do that. Grey Blood gives one final concerned growl before aiding to push her legs back up, acting as her perch that guides her back into the pilot seat. He chooses to lay down at her feet as she sinks into the cushions, where Y/N thinks back to old times, ancestral wars, and barbaric cruelty; her past. She traces the outlines of the star’s radiance, frowning as they appeared so much like the fires of battle. Her heart sinks into her chest and she yearns to dream, verging to collapse into tears as she wishes to fall into a slumber filled with sweeter and quieter memories.

_Raimyr is five months away from being born_ , Y/N thinks as she wipes away a tear, only then can I return home and face what I’ve done. Then, things will go back to how they were. She wishes, she hopes, she dreams that such a thing could be true. Those haunting names are what occupies her mind next after that tireless hour.

_Lynara, Pegarius, Oly, Fran, Viator…Brena, Quirro, Derose, Calandra, Amaris…Jenri, Mrozek, Luisa…and many, many more._

Y/N slides the knife in an empty sheathe on her belt. Her hands still ache and she is tired of feeling such self-pity. She drops the guilt and steels her mind around the fact that she was saving people—saving her friends—and that she should stop burying her head in loathing and instead focus on the task at hand.

When Y/N opens her eyes again, there is something in front of her. It’s all shadows and color, no symmetrical traces. It flashes white before her ship ceases to be orange and black. Alarms from all around the ship are blaring and finally driving Y/N into gear. 

_“Oh, gods!”_ Y/N shouts as the Golden Comet tremors.

It’s a ship, Y/N finally realizes, pulling back the vessel in an attempt to dodge another beam that fires and instead, grazes its underside near that hatch. A terrible round of turbulence strikes the ship and nearly throws Y/N out of her seat. She is swamped by darkness and fire to even notice Grey Blood’s furious, bellowing roar trembling throughout the walls, and fights against the malfunctions to gain back control of her aircraft. What she assumes is a heavy cruiser, dives closer with a whimsical and thundering hum that creates even more larger cracks in the glass before dispatching a sequence of smaller fighter drones. 

They begin swarming in vast numbers and soar at frightening speeds, colliding like missiles into her own crumbling ship that gives their command vessel another opportunity to fire another fiery beam into her left engine. Y/N regains what she can of the ammunition, and curses repeatedly in various tongues with each successful demolition against the drones. There is a satisfying number of puffs in the void—burning in black and orange—screws, bolts, scraps of metal, and wires lost in the infinite black. However, as Y/N has dawned the fact that she’s been outnumbered, the drones make a final onslaught against her wrecked exterior, taking down the final few arms and completely spins her vessel in rapid circles.

The exit hatch of the ship had been hanging from the last few bolts, and eventually broken off completely due to the forceful movements of their burnout. Y/N shrieks and clings onto the pilot’s seat for dear life as the Golden Comet begins to tremor and vacuum the air from the open exit at breakneck speed, sucking whatever she had so feebly tossed around the ship into the void of space. She is too overwhelmed by trying not to get blasted into the galaxy to even consider giving her final prayers, reaching out for Grey Blood whose claws are clinging into the floor, hanging by a thread. 

Her grey gives a frightened screech, gnawing at Y/N’s sleeve as her arm quickly comes out to grab him by the back of his wings. With a strained yell, she does what she can against the forces of gravity to haul him forward, ducking her head when yet another explosion erupts the ship from behind. Y/N is panicking while all hell breaks loose and as she fights fate to get out of this alive, preferring she would rather break something important than have it dismembered completely.

Y/N stretches her leg outwards the farthest she can, her heel just barely grazing the shift gear before another explosion goes off again. She kicks her boot into the gear and strives to lean forward with the ship. The vessel arches over the enemy’s and she heaves Grey Blood in front of her. The beast releases a strangled cry as his companion takes a hold of the base of each flapping wing. She senses that he is angered by the sudden contact, but asserts the growl elsewhere as the drones give the vessel another buck forward.

“Hurry, Grey Blood! Fly!” Y/N shouts hurriedly, her head twisting back to see an incoming drone that would surely be their untimely demise.

The beast kicks into motion and begins his flight, bellowing a frustrated roar that cracks against Y/N’s eardrums like lightning, and she relishes in the shimmer of breaking glass as she kicks down the cracking glass deck. They fly into the void of space with stability, soaring through fragmented prisms that somehow seem brighter than stars themselves. The beings from Amis break free from the volatile destruction of the Golden Comet, only to plummet shortly and land on the top of the enemy’s ship with a powerful tumble across the mechanical wingspan.

A light from a new sun blinds her, and Y/N is sweating against the sight of a realm in smoke and flames thousands of meters below.

She’s reached Vanaheim, _or what’s left of it._

The world of the _Vanir_ is suffering immensely and the settlements that are like blotches of dark color come with the bitter and overwhelming aroma of war. Metal, burning wood, and mourn stings in Y/N’s nostrils, but it is the one thing that keeps her from slipping uselessly into unconsciousness, leveraging her eyes open to see a frightening swarm of drones charging her way. She scours through her mind of what advantages she had on this particular field, frowning upon the predicament as she never really found herself in this situation before; thrown out of her own demolished ship and standing on her enemies with a hundred fighter drones coming her way.

Upon seeing the fleet of enemies with the help of the stratospheric and new sun, Y/N releases a quizzical breath before ducking to her knees as they come whizzing above her head, nearly decapitating her. She spins briskly upright again, releasing Grey Blood from her clutches and furrows her brows in a tight knit as she pinpoints the colors that come pivoting back into her direction again. There is a hint of familiarity that blazes across her eyes and Grey Blood sees it, angered by her mind getting caught up in the distraction before he bats his claws against her side to get her to roll out of the way.

**_“Ziz’il?”_ **She wonders aloud.

However, it seems Y/N had already found her advantage while she dwells on the name she utters.

She takes a colossal leap above a single drone before unsheathing the blood-made weapon, deciding to make use of it before locking it away in the Vault forever, and brings the blade down into the right wing. It wavers violently and carries Y/N higher from the enemy vessel, and she grips the left wing that was barely beyond her reach. With another puzzling thought racing across her mind, Y/N swings her body forward, her knees crouching atop the crown of the drone. She shoves her fist through the metal, grabbing an endless tangle vicely before yanking the bundle out, merely blinking at the electrical and small coughs of smoke that plumes in her eyes. 

She moves forward, leaping from one drone to the other, dragging her blade across the engines of many crafts and taking down whatever was left with her own weight. It was not a difficult task to break the integrity of their exteriors, and truthfully, Y/N wouldn’t have cared if she couldn’t—all she needed to do was get them to go down. They drop like flies, in great numbers they fall against the enemy ship and take down the hanging arms. There is sheared metal plummeting into the atmosphere of Vanaheim, and Y/N can only pray that it doesn’t crater the last of the remaining settlements. She sees that there is a fleet surrounding closer in the stratosphere, but she chose to focus on the ship that— _stupidly_ —destroyed her precious Golden Comet.

Y/N curses out the name again as she takes the last of the drone by the wingspan, dive-bombing the machine and herself into the vessel’s own glass deck—relishing in the shared form of sweet revenge. She breaks away from the explosion of fire and glass shards that have smolders licking up the side of her leg, burning a hole through the fabric and leaving cinders in her trail. Luckily, this particular ship has extra emergency protocols and puts up a magnetic energy barrier across the broken view, safe from being blown into the void of space unlike her own ship. Y/N is a walking storm of fiery rain, making her way down the steps of the deck and glares at the empty pilot’s seat.

“Ziz’il!” Y/N shouts, listening to the crackling and burning silence of the ship before turning upon the flapping of wings, finding her grey flying into the ship with iridescent lights against his membranes, motioning her head forward, “Grey Blood…”

Grey Blood gives a long sniff in the air, as his kind are raveningly equipped for finding prey behind their flames and smoke, better than an Amisian’s mere blander senses. The beast brushes his snout against the billows of black and blinks at the bright orange flakes, golden lights tracing the outlines of what looks to be like a silhouette slouching near the corner—cowering. He makes a rough growl, stalking closer, dragging his claws against the floors and scrapes his talons closer towards the figure’s feet. 

He gives a short bellow and Y/N follows.

“You better have _the greatest excuse in the universe_ to keep me from tearing the head off your shoulders, Ziz’il,” Y/N reaches forward, yanking forward the young woman’s shoulder closer to her snarling face and glares icily, “And for the god’s sake, you better add some **_begging_** in it.”

  
  
  


『✭』

  
  
  


Anzaarians— _goddamn Anzaarians_ —one of the cockiest and whiniest species in the galaxy. They have a habit of biting off more than they can chew, where Y/N had remembered a certain unfortunate few that had stuffed themselves into political debates and came out of it crying and bleeding. But Y/N didn’t feel sorry for them; they outed her for being a child back then, she had a right to break their kneecaps. This Anzaarian, especially this one, was just moments away from being one of those unfortunate few, regardless or not if Ziz’il was her old friend.

_“Y-Y/N!”_ She choked, tearful and smiling as if she was saved from damnation by a merciful god, “You have no idea how g-glad I am to see you!”

Y/N brandishes her knuckles with a glare, earning a frightful squeak from the tearful girl, “You have about three seconds before I punch your teeth in, you bitch.”

“W-w-wait, Y/N! Please! Listen to me!” Ziz’il shrieks, putting her hands in front of her face in an attempt to shield herself from Y/N’s foreboding assault, “I didn’t mean to attack your ship! You know I would never do that!”

Unfortunately for Ziz’il, Y/N was a tad bit too angry to be convinced and flexed her fingers again, invoking yet another terrified shriek. _She was doing a lot more begging than explaining, wasn’t she?_

“W-we were ambushed!” She shouts quickly, eliciting a raised brow from the glowering Amisian, “Y/N, please, Your Grace! Some Anzaarians and I were chasing a distress signal from Vanaheim and some rouge ships got the jump on us! They attacked us first and got control of our ships!”

_Not sure if it was a distress signal. Huh, Fury?_ Y/N grumbles inwardly and lowers her fist, glaring venomously before veering her entire body around, throwing the herculean punch behind her and feeling the satisfying impact between her knuckles and sudden assailant.

The sudden attacker, a _Marauder,_ flies backwards from Y/N’s brutal strength and collides face-first into the nearest wall with a rumbling bang. Before the Marauder can even process what had just happened and how Y/N Skaraeith could even sense him, he sputters bloodily as the Amisian slams her knee into his chest. She is all shadows and hues, and the assailant can feel nothing more than the air of anger raining down on him. Ziz’il throws her arms above her head and screams from the sudden fray that had transpired within the confinements of her broken ship, watching feebly aside a growling Grey Blood as Y/N unsheathes her knife, leveling the tip at his neck.

“Of course. It’s always you stupid Marauders causing so much ruckus across the galaxy,” Y/N spits venomously and moves her knee with the recoiling alien, “Don’t you idiots have anything better to do than cause trouble?”

“Y-You mean raid and pillage?” He barks back, clamoring his back deeper against the wall, “F-f-funny for someone like you to be saying that. I know w-who…I know _what_ you are…”

_Wrong answer._

Ziz’il makes a frightened gasp as Y/N twirls away the knife, yanking the Marauder by the collar of his garb and delivers yet another terrible punch right into the nose. She has a habit of doing that to other beings, lately, and Y/N assumes that it won’t go away any time soon. Ziz’il is petrified under the hand that Y/N offers her, showing an unexpected form of gentleness and kindness that she hadn’t been receiving five minutes ago. As Ziz’il follows the red circles that lead back towards the wall with the slumped over and possibly dead Marauder, she trembles when she grabs the similarly red-stained hand.

“I’m sorry…” Ziz’il begins to cry again, sniffling, “I’m sorry, Y/N. I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry!”

“Shh…Quiet. Quiet, now, my friend,” Y/N shakes her head, wrapping around Ziz’il in a tight embrace, “Are you hurt? If he did, just give the word and I’ll toss him from the ship and let him get sucked out in space.”

“No, thank you…Thank you for saving me.” Ziz’il offers a grateful and bright smile, though Y/N remains ever-so somber.

Y/N gives a brief nod, releasing Ziz’il after checking the last of the visible skin she shows for any injuries and ambles towards the clear barrier, sighing, “Okay. Come on, Ziz’il. We’ve got work to do.” 

There is a fleet before their eyes and Ziz’il cannot help but feel the twinge of fear. With a shuddering breath, she looks to her old friend with uncertainty. Y/N Skaraeith was always the wildling, hence the reason why she hailed the moniker Wild Star, but as one of her old and closest friends, Ziz’il wonders why she was ever called that. She was a careful person, in truth, and always took action after silently assessing the field. Y/N came from a family that had a bad reputation, but she was the oldest and last living proof that the Skaraeith legacy would not be so tainted in blood. 

Word of the Amwren Ramses death and Gardenia E’rya’s imprisonment did not take long to reach the planet of Anzaar, and Ziz’il felt terrible for not being there for Y/N. 

“What do we do?” Ziz’il asks shakily, searching Y/N’s expression for any sign of doubt in her own words, but finds nothing but the face of analysis and caution, “Y/N, there are fifty of them up here and hundreds of them down there. There is only one of us. What chance do we have to win?”

“Every chance, in fact,” Y/N gives her own mirthless laugh, and Ziz’il recognizes that the sound is her own way of showing innocence and purity, “You’re with me and I’m with you. Any friend who fights with me is the best chance there ever is.”

Ziz’il releases a breath of awe before breaking into one of the biggest grins that Y/N has ever seen in her life.

“Really!?” She squeals, clasping her hands together.

Y/N rolls her eyes and offers the slight of a smile, chuckling.

“It’s good to see you again, Ziz’il.”

Ziz’il, infamously known as _the Wailer_ from _Anzaar_ , was a peculiar girl; _an outcast._ She was the literal epitome of a negative attitude—with an added bonus of a _lot_ of tears—and Y/N found herself wondering how such a friendship ever manifested itself into her life. As a wildling under strict rules, especially back long ago, Y/N hardly ever traversed throughout the galaxy, tasked with the responsibility of taking care of her siblings. It should have been Gardenia’s job, but she was too busy fawning over power and her husband to even care, where Y/N once again curses the existence of that awful woman. 

It was back during an act of rebellion against her rules, where Y/N stole a lone craft and ended up crash-landing into some unknown planet after some remote malfunctions, courtesy of said awful woman. Luckily and unfortunately for Y/N, she ended up on the property of Ziz’il’s farm, but demolished it on impact. Y/N winced whenever she remembered how much Ziz’il cried, dreading on those awful hours and could never forget her negativity. The air was always doubtful around the Anzaarian, and it seemed to be especially pungent in this moment, moments away from taking on an entire fleet of _Anzaarian-Marauder-infested_ rogue ships.

“They look even more scary up close,” Ziz’il squeaked as _the Vigilant,_ her ship, took them to the very back of the formation, “We should turn back and get help or something! We’ll never make it through!”

Y/N only rolled her eyes, sharing a glare of rancor with each and every one of the ships behind the clear barrier, “There’s no turning back now.”

“W-why not?” Ziz’il asked, tears welling up in her eyes.

“Because I’ve just destroyed two of the ships,” Y/N points flatly towards the twin vortexes that are driven upwards from the formation of clouds, engulfing two ships that rapidly spins them out of line and goes up in flames, taking out a few others, “Okay, make that _six._ Step on it!”

With a miniature shriek and a choked question rising at the back of her throat like bile, Ziz’il thrusts her gears into full throttle. The Vigilant was the first ship that Ziz’il ever received from her parents after graduating from _The Academy,_ it took twenty-five years to save up on this rickety craft and Ziz’il was rather insistent that Y/N would guide them out of this massive fray unscathed.

Or, _at the very least,_ Y/N would pay the damages herself and they would still keep their lives. 

Eventually, the rouge ships are beginning to recognize the predicament and begin to rotate back into the direction of the Vigilant. Of course, nobody could really not tell what was happening after the ship of the infamous Wild Star came crashing down on them like a black and gold comet in smoke a few minutes later, and some were more than a bit furious against Y/N, who has injured them majorly once or twice. 

Ziz’il looks onto the fleet that begins to send a volley of missiles and beams into whatever was left of the barrier that was keeping the ship from being completely destroyed, and if there was any more heavier or close-range damages, the two could kiss their lives goodbye. The ship sputters in yellow shimmers and pink flashes, and Y/N directs with her hand to the side as a particularly fast vessel is diving from above.

“Flank right!” Y/N commands, and takes on her next course of action after seeing the craft plummet past them, crashing and exploding into another unfortunate vessel, “Up!”

_“Up or forward!?”_ Ziz’il asks in a panicky voice, earning a quick glare from the Amisian who raises her hand again, directing the vortex in front of the ship’s engines that was beginning to catch fire. 

“Just get us away from the line of fire!” She snarls, solidifying the vortex into ice before using the mass as a heavy hitter, barricade, and lethal weapon against the oncoming fleet, though it cranks into nothing but ice cubes and steam two seconds later.

_“AAAAA—“_ Ziz’il is continuously screaming as she directs the ship upwards and soars forward, going past the fleet that begins to turn to catch up to them.

“—Stop screaming and give me full control of the steer and arms!” Y/N snaps quickly, shoving herself into the co-pilot seat after dispersing the vortexes, “Break left and jump to the side of the formation!”

Ziz’il is having a better time with taking the commands of her companion, but would rather have preferred Y/N to lower her volume. She shifts the gears of her ship that gives a terrible clank, and worries for half a second if they were stuck in a straight motion, before gasping at the sudden jerk the ship makes before accelerating into a curve. The Vigilant drifts quickly and comes at the side of the Marauder invasion, yellow ships and dark blue vessels are beginning to shimmer and swerve. But through Y/N’s guidance, and with the help of a kick of her boot into the panel that sputters alive, they begin their continuous onslaught.

The Amisian and Anzaarian unleash a volley of fire from above, taking down half of the fleet with time to spare, thanks to the efforts of Y/N’s keen eye and quite formidable skills of flight. Anzaarian ships were luckily big and slower vessels, made for bigger companies that were deemed _‘elite’_ and much more _‘important’_ than a mere farm girl who got lucky. On the other hand, in the smaller flightcraft of the Vigilant, Y/N was sending Ziz’il’s parents her soundless praise and gratitude—this rickety old gal was much more useful and preferable to send the rouge fleet into a chaotic, flaming disarray. 

_“Y-Y/N!”_ Ziz’il whimpers, pointing ahead, _“We’ve got company!”_

Y/N tears her eyes away from the stratosphere enveloped in smoke and destruction and her wild gaze scrapes against the other half of the fleet that has risen to their height, up and charging, “Turn off the main thrusters!”

Ziz’il’s eyes just about popped out of her head, throwing a bewildered look to Y/N, _“WHAT!?”_

**_“DROP US!”_**

_Again, with the screaming. Why does she always need to scream?_ The entirety of Y/N’s hair billows upwards and her heart drops right into her stomach as the ship begins to descend closer and closer to the realm of Vanaheim; ensuring the fearful possibility of losing their lives by crash-landing. Y/N pulls back the lever and grabs ahold of the co-pilot’s seat, her nails digging into the leather curves, blinking away the involuntary tears that float upwards against the magnetic and shimmering barrier that reflects the void of space and the remaining fleet that turn to follow them in a nose-dive. 

The tremors of turbulence are excruciating against Y/N’s ears, beaten tenderly and writhing with anguish of the blaring and deafening alarms that follow. She wants to cry, some small part of her does, the wonder-less child part. She has been trekking the tightrope of life within the canyon of darkness and death for far too long. She feels it wobble, it’s wobbling constantly. There have been similar moments like this, just barely scraping by the face of sweet death, but has been saved every time.

She keeps fighting, _why does she keep fighting?_

_“Y/N!”_ Ziz’il is crying, sobbing terribly against the mechanical winds that whip through their hair, but it does not at all cower to her volume, _“Y/N! Please!”_

Y/N can almost see that misty breath of relief that comes out of her, raging and gray, like a storm cloud. She steels whatever was left of her bravery and wears the floating tears in her lashes like they were the only semblances of armor. Her head drags to the side to see her own electrical panel, blinking upon the sight of a new message sent by the sobbing pilot; she’s just gained full, unlimited control of the ship—entrusted in her hands to save them from dying so needlessly. With a new objective to cease Ziz’il of her tearful caterwauling, Y/N puts the vehicle back into motion, her hand furiously tapping and swiping against the sequences of numbers and codes, putting the smaller thrusters to work and chokes on her own spit as she was jerked forward.

They’re not falling anymore, if anything, they’re _floating_ downwards.

Y/N begins to fire their final rounds with the slam of her palm into the panel, damn near breaking the monitor in half. The beams are kindling before sparking, the light from the concentrated blasts of beams grow smaller with every passing second, melting into the radiance of the stars that Y/N almost prays against. Gravity does its work during their descent, undulating with the falling winds, and the vessel merely grazes against the forces of their enemy. The frame of existence narrows, and Y/N only has seconds away of dying in a combustion of dry grass and ruthless flames. 

_“Ziz’il,”_ Y/N’s voice is taut yet calm, “Ziz’il. On my command, grab Grey Blood and unbuckle yourself from the seat.”

The Anzaarian whips her head at her, and stretches her mouth wide, incredulous before uttering a choked noise, “But, Y-Y/N, we’re upside-down! T-The barrier on the g-glass can’t hold my weight! I’ll go r-right through it! I-if I hit the ground b-before the ship—“

“—Ziz’il, just trust me,” Y/N offers a trying smile, wrapping her fist around the engine’s lever, “I’m not going to let you die. Trust me.”

The Marauders are merged in a needling formation, and neither of them stutters their breaths as one of their targets have successfully chipped away the last of the Vigilant arms. The periphery of Y/N’s vision is beginning to fill with the tops of spruce trees at each side of the barrier, and she comes to the conclusion that they cannot wait a second longer. As her old friend remains stunned and motionless, still strapped in by the incredibly tight buckle banded around her waist, Y/N’s throat swells after mustering a frustrated sound. Frightful and flummoxed by the dropping of her own weight, Ziz’il flies out of her seat and feels her legs fuzz with minimal pain as she makes contact with the barrier.

It’s hot against her trousers, buzzing and nearly able to save her from hitting the ground as she realizes that the ship has been desperate to turn itself back upright. Always the wilding, Ziz’il manages to think breathlessly, her eyes flashing against Y/N’s body that is still in her seat, hanging yet strangely still in control of her limbs. Her knees phase right through the barrier, and Ziz’il’s stomach drops as Grey Blood is tugging her back by the scruff. The beast’s teeth are scraping against the nape of her neck and just barely keeping her from falling right through the yellow.

Before she falls, however, Y/N is faster than this, unbelievably and much horrifically faster. 

The ship gives one final sputter before it makes contact with the surface. Like a plow, the wingspan of the Vigilant creates two massive rows in the dirt, detritus and splashes of mud coating the crumbling exterior of the ship and the tops of Ziz’il’s knees that give an unpleasant burn. It scrapes and stings, but there’s nothing worth shedding tears about it. Y/N yanks the lever with all of her might, gold flashes nearly breaking the concentration during her fight for survival and sways with the ship that flips upwards again, harsh winds sweeping at the back of the two beings. 

Ziz’il slips from the yellow barrier and back onto the floor, leaning back up only to crouch back down again as a massive effulgence of white and red assaults her. Powerful cracks in the air rips through the tension, and the Anzaarian cannot help but scream against her torn senses. Y/N remains motionless, however, terrifyingly calm as she watches the destruction of numerous Marauders dive-bombing into the ground. 

_**Don’t make the same mistake** ,_ something says, **_it was us or them._**

Y/N blinks with rage.

_How_ **_dare_ ** _she think of something like that?_

  
  
  


『✭』

  
  
  


The Vigilant— _what’s left of it_ —makes an unbelievingly smooth landing. The main thrusters were turned back on as soon as the massive series of explosions began its onslaught on the atmosphere, billowing black clouds that were nowhere near capable of Y/N’s control. She only tamed the ozone taste in her mouth that tightened in her throat, threatening to push her and fall off the edge of stability. She wants to cry; they did it. They _goddamn_ did it. Their people would be so proud, but who were those people? Why would she want to prove anything to them? A dozen Marauders just perished right before her eyes, nothing had changed— _death was death_ —and there were still no changes to that fact a few meters in the demolished settlements of Vanaheim.

However, Ziz’il was beyond ecstatic, sky-rocketing from the floor to press her hands against the barrier, throwing her head back to Y/N with a mixed expression of sadness and tears, “W-We did it! Y/N, we did it! We’re alive! Oh my god!”

Y/N rolls with the intensive surge of horror that skitters down her back, clawing at her bare flesh and tries to make her become more broken than she already was. Her teeth gnash at the insides of her own cheek, but she shows the increments of a small smile, pulling back her unkempt hair and forces herself out of the seat. The leather is torn, scratched with puffs of cotton and shreds of fabric that had fallen on her legs. They’re alive, just barely, and she comes to her grey to inspect him for any injuries. He’s dizzy and growling weakly—malnourished and _so_ thirsty—and Y/N yearns to get all of them outside for what is a poor excuse for fresh air.

The hatch of the Vigilant yanks open with a terrible clank and clutter, and Ziz’il straps on a thin cloak before trekking onwards into the valley of destruction. Her disgust is ignited as she spots a dismembered limb just two feet away, laying dirty and scathed in the dirt. There is bloody rubble under Y/N’s boot as soon as she hits the ground, frowning fleetingly of the ash that covers the scuffs. The ends of her aglets brush against the singed ends of fiery grass, yellow and black, and the trees that follow are barely recognizable and only dark colors by the heat waves in the distance. Her knees sag with every step closer towards this place of death and Y/N can’t help but feel numb to it all.

This _barely_ cuts close to what destruction looks like, and Y/N can feel her stomach churn.

Bile and last night’s rations come crawling up her throat before she spits out only blood. Y/N moves forward towards Ziz’il, who is closer by the debris and fire, yet looking out further beyond that. The Anzaarian points towards the nearest settlement—a village—and Y/N recognizes it after a beat of silence. 

She gives her silent prayers to _Valhalla._

Wordlessly, they begin their journey across the burning field, tired of the smell of fire, but move onto the next set begrudgingly. Though they had survived by the skin of their teeth, Ziz’il is still sniffling and Y/N cannot blame her; the Vigilant is in pieces, they’re practically stranded and outnumbered with no plan when they set foot into the village, and Y/N was unequivocal that she was going to have to push herself again. Anzaarians are not fighters, but watchers.

“Y/N, what do we do?” Ziz’il looks at her, trying to discern her silence for thinking, “We’ll be ambushed.”

“I know,” Y/N sighs at that inextricable outcome, tidying her hair with a band, “That’s why you’re going to stay behind me at all times.”

Ziz’il, truthfully, is voracious of the idea, but she shakes her head stubbornly, “You’re not—“

_“—I don’t care.”_

She doesn’t. She really doesn’t. The burgeoning black plumes blowing right in front of her eyes made sure of that. This world couldn’t afford to have another loss, she determines, not while she treads among them—not while she still has some strength left in her to fight. Their excursion has ended and Ziz’il does not interrogate her friend any longer, collapsing into a piteous whimper that bubbles through her lips as she finds people—slain and charred—in various spots at the fringe of the village. They’re either bleeding or burnt, and Y/N cannot count them all.

“Y/N!” Ziz’il yelps, batting her friend’s shoulder desperately with her fist, desperate to gain her attention.

_“Hands up!”_

_Wow,_ Y/N thinks, _they sure are quick._

There is a horned Marauder—an _Ophorian_ from the planet _Othea_ —and a undistinguishable troop with arms pointing directly at them, heeding their attention, all of them donning such greasy and baggy armor. Some of them wear masks while others brandish scars, a majority have teeth while some have fangs. Ziz’il trembles at the sight of them, but Y/N doesn’t give them so much as a glance over. The barrels and tips of blasters and blades level at certain arteries that the two would much prefer would go unscathed, where Ziz’il clings behind Y/N as instructed— _or more so out of instinct_ —while the Amisian merely cocks a brow at the goons that doesn’t seem to recognize either of them yet. There are more of the raiders up ahead, and Y/N perks her head at the direction of screaming and clashes of metal in the distance. 

“I said, _hands up!”_ He repeats angrily, waving the nose of his blaster closer between Y/N’s eyes, snarling as she does so.

_“Y-Y/N—“_ Ziz’il attempts to call out, but she is immediately hushed as Y/N tilts her chin slightly.

“—Calm yourself and do what he says. Put your hands up and keep your eyes closed.”

_Keep her eyes closed?_ Ziz’il is afraid to ask what would transpire in the next ten seconds, but decides to follow the mysteriously calm countenance that the Amisian clads as armor. Ziz’il is balky to listen, recognizing that they are poorly-equipped to even handle two of them, but when Y/N throws her cautious glare closer, Ziz’il squeaks and does not argue further. Her eyes pinch terribly tight and there is an immediate gasp that falls from her lips, feeling her nails that were previously digging into Y/N’s shoulder rip away.

She’s begun to move, and the Marauders don’t hesitate to open fire upon her staggering bravery. 

Steam and warm ice breaches from the ash and dirt. Y/N shoves her hand upwards, using herself and her manifestations as a barrier between Ziz’il and the open blazing rounds. There is a white-hot pain that grazes her torso, a paralytic shock clawing up at her skin and nearly seizes the entirety of her own shoulder. The Amisian cannot deny her reaction that follows; a pained scrunch that twists her brows and invokes a long hiss. She is not immune to the advanced and diverse variants of weapons that are wielded by these idiots, but she does her best to deflect their spitting efforts, intercepting them by the surface of her vambraces. 

Y/N thrusts her palms forward, straining against the meager amount of moisture that has come from this destroyed realm, mustering what she can into jaggedly sharp needles of ice. They surge and throb weakly in a spiraling rotation as Y/N directs them at breakneck speed, but she doesn’t let up. Her footwork is messy but unerring as she dodges what she can, suffering the bare minimum on the benign places of her exposed skin. The cold vortex erupts out of one Marauder and burrows into another, the clear crystalline worsening visibly into a deep red swirl. 

Ziz’il cannot help but be ensnared by how _grim_ her power is, besieged by a pulse of terror.

They scream Wild Star and beg for mercy with it, some fall to their knees while others are relentless, continuing to fire and waste their ammo, in hopes of just to watch her shed one drop of blood, at the very least. Y/N feels exhausted, she is exhausted, and Ziz’il shrieks as the ice explodes in white and red. 

It comes crumbling down into the ground like an iceberg. Her wall of protection has been broken and she is reduced to a crouch, cowering behind the much shorter block. The air that pollutes her lungs is vile—reeking of blood, sweat, and pain—and the sound it brings is not any better. 

Y/N can barely concentrate on her own breathing, holding her hands outward to liquidate what she now presumes is just plain blood. It sickens her, a macabre form of her abilities that make her want to purge, but the onslaught is endless against these raiders who just _will not die._

“Y/N!” Ziz’il shrieks, holding her hands in front of her eyes as one of the Marauders had swooped in from the side, aiming the barrel at her temple.

There is a bellow that rips through the air, like lightning splitting the sky, Grey Blood smacks his wings against the forehead of the assailant, digging his claws right near his ears and releases an ear-splitting hiss while his teeth clamp between their helmets. Ziz’il confiscates the quad-blaster with a flimsy slap of their wrists, fumbling with it before taking her shaky aim. The recoil knocks her flat on her rear, but her aim was well and true. As Ziz’il pried her hazel-eyes open again, she found a morbidly giant, red and black hole in the middle of the raider’s stomach. 

There are strings of flesh that fly up from the wound upon his descent and Ziz’il has reached her limit, throwing herself onto all fours and vomiting into the grass. Grey Blood gives one final roar as he has finished his taste of man, and by then, all is quiet. Y/N drops her arms and comes down to her knees, her breathing painfully labored. Something comes across her mind—something she’s never thought of before—but it is fleeting and strangely, barely memorable. Y/N drags her head across her shoulders to Ziz’il, who rolls on her side whilst clutching her aching stomach.

“Are…Are you okay?” Y/N asks, struggling to rise from the ground.

Ziz’il coughs wetly, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth with a groan, “You owe me…” She pauses to gag, “You owe me _seventy-thousand…units.”_

Y/N nods once she stands, helping Ziz’il back on her feet and supports her as they enter the village, “You owe me a drink for saving you twice today, _crybaby.”_

  
  
  


『✭』

  
  
  


The Marauders was a rag-tag group of invaders that have been terrorizing and making a nuisance of themselves across the Nine Realms for about two years now. Criminals, one could call them, while the elite would consider them fools whose necks have not yet met the end of an axe. Asgard, the realm of the gods, happened to be one of the hardly touched majority, and it was even easier to be nuisances due to such impeccable timing and opportunity. Every corner of the World Tree was desperate to claw its way out of the brink of chaos and collapse and they had a certain god to thank for that, thanks to his fruitless glory. Upon today’s battlefield; an innocent, little village in Vanaheim, there were only minor repercussions by some brave villagers who tried to stand against them, though they would need to be tossed onto the pile sooner or later.

As the siege against the village had almost reached the eve of victory the efforts of other forces had rebelled against them; The _Einherjar_ with _Lady Sif and the Warriors Three_ — _Hogun, Fandral, and Volstagg._ They were among Asgard’s finest, and certainly proved more than capable of going against these nuisances. 

They came charging on whickering, armored steeds that stomped their hooves on whoever was unfortunate enough to fall. Lady Sif rode upon her mailed black mare, _Alúð_ with shield and sword in hand, brandishing her steel with a swivel, dodging another that swings and comes close to knocking her off the steed. She comes rolling off the edge of the saddle and right back on her feet, bringing her body backwards as she rises. She saves herself from decapitation as his knife comes right at the end of her chin. A Marauder with a helmet and horns is her tenth obstacle among the adversaries, and his knack of having an awful tell gives Sif the opportunity to shove down his sword with her shield. He goes down with a rough crack against the jaw from the top of her shield as she brings it up again, and relishes the vibration his body makes as he falls. 

Her eyes dart in every direction within her closer range, yet she sees farther, watching the valiance of her fellow Asgardian— _Volstagg the Svelte_ —who brings down the hilt of his giant axe against a Marauder’s cheek whilst being surrounded. A weapon like _Brandrheid Undrsigr_ suits him well; he is large, burly, and outright stronger than these feeble raiders, using his thickset of arms to thwart away an enemy’s weapon and send them forward, right into the belly of another man. Sif pretended not to see the confident gleam that he sent her way, spinning to maneuver herself from the end of a blade and thrust the tip of her own.

_Always the show-off,_ Sif thinks begrudgingly, parrying her shield against a lance that scrapes to her knees.

Lady Sif brings down the Marauder low before dragging her sword across the length of his neck, kicking him down and begins to take notice of the raiders growing in numbers, moving from the forest and shooting down whatever they so pleased and what had not been consumed by fire by incendiary machines. Their drop ships were assumed to be far, and there was absolutely no time left to search for them.

There were still villagers that were caught in the slaughter, gathering their children and running with strangers to the farthest reaches from battle. They get a good distance from the nearest patches of fire and roll out of the black winds. However, they could only run so far. Sif followed a particular woman and child, seeing them crouch under the shockwave that combusts upon a certain building—their home, she assumes—and left defenseless. She decides to break away towards their direction to escort them. 

Yet a shadow bellows above her head, and Lady Sif seems to be the only one that hears it. 

She points her nose to the sky and finds the mysterious bird perch against one of the last standing stone-pillars. It is dark grey, steel-blue, and frilled with black, draconic, leathery wings stretching to reveal two flakes of gold staring back at her, unintimidated by this scenery, and was not hostile to her. Lady Sif slants her head quizzically, and the beast does the same, sardonic in gesture.

“A dragon?” She queries, blinking perturbedly as she takes a step closer, “You’re an—“

A Marauder has sprung up from behind her, and the echoes of explosions come thundering again. She spins to throw up her shield, sliding her sword under and against her arm as she delivers a feint and successful skewer through their torso, and she finally begins to see the damage that she was momentarily distracted by. Asgard is finding themselves on the losing side. When she looks back, the beast is nowhere to be seen, and Lady Sif has no choice but to change the Asgardians’ tactics on her own—the others were sure to be unanimous, as well.

When she turns to deliver her commands, however, she finds the barrel of a rifle staring right back at her. Lady Sif stills upon provocation, and releases an angry breath as she prepares to steel herself and throw up her shield in defense. Yet, she knew that the impact would send her straight on her back, and Sif recounted her steps to predict their future movements. 

There is an ominous humming in the air, it ripples and surges throughout the sky and Lady Sif has already grown instinctive of what comes next. She throws her shield up and is lucky not to have herself thrown back by the force of gravity that comes crashing down into the realm in a great effulgence of light and mist. The iridescent pillar of the _Bifrost_ strikes the realm like lightning, and is not very different from who had followed. They gather all eyes but do not still the foreboding attacks from the Marauders.

_Yet another Asgardian,_ they think sourly, _who else could they send?_

Not whom, but what—a hammer, _the_ hammer _Mjölnir_ —comes piercing through the light of the Bifrost with a melodic thrum. It strikes the nearest thing beside Lady Sif who hastily moves from its range, taking down two Marauders at once with one mighty crack against their throats. The godly weapon always seemed to have a mind of its own. However, is nothing true and never complete without its master, whose hand stretches open to summon it back to him. It is a pull like opposite ends of gravity and the pillar of light sucks up from the ground with one final shockwave of mist while Mjölnir is back in the hands of Lady Sif’s dear friend. 

Lady Sif would have wanted to greet _Thor Odinson,_ had there not been a troupe of Marauders charging his way. 

The God of Thunder bolts from the dusty ring and takes a vast leap, bringing his hammer down that seemed to have quaked the very core of the realm and left only a crater with paralyzed bodies in its wake. Electricity spurts from the length of the weapon and the god does not fret with the overuse of power. Lady Sif breaks from his theatrically late entrance, and grits her teeth in a tight bare.

“I’ve got this completely under control!” 

Yet, Thor gleans slyly— _a family trait,_ it seemed, “Is that why everything’s on fire!?”

Sif was rather pleased watching the elfin son of Odin get tackled by a gang of adversaries, but had been busy on her own corner as two others clashed their sword against her heel. With a spin, a terrible kick in the jaw, and a stab through the stomach, Sif inwardly wondered throughout her breathy pauses of the whereabouts of that peculiar dragon. She wondered, too, of where its own master could be. There had been rumors afloat of the beast and Sif was almost certain of who treads among them.

_Was she safe?_

  
  
  


『✭』

  
  
  


Y/N Skaraieth and Ziz’il kept their arrival on the sidelines, surreptitiously gliding from behind one dome building to the next and eventually settled on a crouch next to a fallen stone pillar. The Amisian had asked her grey to fly ahead of them first and find anyone who was on the opposing side of these Marauders. Her instructions are clear as to not give away their position, but to at least let others know that some form of reinforcements has come. Grey Blood comes back less than two minutes later, bellowing lowly as his frills point towards a beacon of light that assaults their vision. Ziz’il bits her lips together to suppress a scream. Y/N pushes an arm in front of her face to protect them from the blast of mist. Someone has come, someone she knew too well has come.

And Y/N could not help but feel the twinge of fear alight across her spine as she sees him.

There are others there as well; _comrades_ , old Asgardian comrades that have taken the troupe name the Warriors Three. This distress signal and hapless mission has become an unwanted reunion, and there are instinctive alarms going off in her head not to engage in this field. Minutes go by. There is no sign of advancing Marauders in these outskirts, and Y/N was conflicted whether they should take out whoever they could in long-range or throw up their hoods and engage head-first, hoping for the best.

However, before anything even remotely promising comes up, Y/N feels a hand grasp her shoulder. Ziz’il tries her hand at giving reassurance— _no, her attention_ —as she pulls at the Amisian’s arm with an unfamiliar strength. She musters nothing but a frightened squeak.

_Have they been spotted?_ Y/N asks herself as she turns to look, but is ultimately enveloped by fear.

_“Volstagg,”_ The half-blood greets breathlessly before putting her hands up in surrender, “Please, don’t kill me. I rather like living.”

Volstagg the Svelte, despite being a round-about jolly warrior, does not seem so easily amused by her poor jest and raises his axe, “Lady Sif spotted your beast and has sent for me to come get you. Though I don’t know how your blind eye intends to slaughter all a hundred raiders at this distance. Surely, that is why you are here?”

Y/N had almost forgotten that their last meeting was rather… _unpleasant_ and more or less hung in the palace of a misunderstanding. Volstagg spoke true and gruff through his long, thick red beard, and she had no shame to be piteous as she offered her head hung in shame. The doggedness of Asgardians are surely one of their best yet most errant feats. 

“Or am I mistaken and you’ve come to make an even more nuisance of yourself in front of my people?”

“I wouldn’t really consider myself a nuisance these days…rather only a _witty nomad,_ at most,” Y/N pauses and swallows as she sees Volstagg’s axe raise in warning, and she briskly clears her throat, “I will lend my strength to you…” Y/N offers before rising her eyes to him, blazing and unbound, “If you can get me an audience with Thor.”

The rough laughter that follows is rather malignant, but Y/N is unperturbed in her gaze, “Thor is already not in the brightest of moods. Asgard is on the brink of ruin, with no thanks to you, _Amisian_. Are you sure you want a meeting with the man you’ve betrayed?”

“I didn’t _betray_ him,” Y/N barks, shooting up from her knees, “I…”

Y/N stops.

But she did, she finally catches herself half-way, she _did_ betray him.

_**It was us or them** ,_ something says again, louder this time, **_their deaths are not in our hands._**

“Y/N?” Ziz’il’s voice beckoned softly, a hand circling around hers and the Amisian stiffens under such contact. 

  
  


_What part of her soul was speaking just now?_

  
  


Volstagg, however, remains rather idle upon her dampened revelation. She should have known sooner, he could only say, but he smartly keeps his mouth shut even in the midst of the wronged. Her shoulders go rigid when Ziz’il stands abreast of her, and Y/N cannot be anymore thankful towards her friend who offers the gentlest of smiles. She’ll be alright, Y/N knows, and she’s only wondering if she will be.

After all, that’s what she came here for, isn’t it? To be better?

“I…” Y/N sighs deeply through her nose, “I’m willing to accept anything he has to throw at me for that. But, Volstagg, please…I just want to talk to him.”

There aren’t many in the field, though with Thor’s efforts, the battle seemed to already be at the eve of their own victory. Volstagg turns back from the demolished village of Vanaheim, not wanting to waste any more time that they had left before giving a solid nod to the two. Although the Anzaarian is meager with tears and rightly stays away from the line of danger, she can’t help but wield herself with the strange blood-red knife that Y/N had given to her before she runs off with Volstagg. 

It feels tenebrous in her hand, and strangely, Ziz’il can almost sense an anger within it.

As soon as Volstagg and Y/N cut through the grass, there is a hulking figure descending the slope of the forest and up into the village. To their luck, there were no villagers that have stumbled near, and Y/N caught sight of a group being led towards the grasslands. The silhouette is towering, bulky, and as Y/N squints upon further inspection; strangely jagged in the wrong places. Her eyes roved once more. 

It is a familiar body that is strapped with steel-plated shoulder blades and an equally fortified spiked club in one hand—an inextricable body of rock. It’s a Kronan, Y/N finally realizes as she covers her ears tightly to the monstrous bellow that cuts through the sky again. He is significantly bigger than Golgotha who’s just about two heads away from this fiend’s height, and Y/N cannot see herself taking on such a nuisance with such a scarce amount of moisture in the air. Volstagg seems to have caught wind of her dissonance and sharply laughs at her inconvenience.

“What’s wrong? Not wet enough?” He jests, unclipping something from his belt and throws his flask at her nose, “This ought to help you, then.”

Y/N winces and pinches her welt, rolling her eyes as she tries to keep herself from toppling to her knees upon the giant’s footsteps, “Luckily, I don’t need it. Look.”

Volstagg follows his eyeliner to where— _or who_ —she points to; Thor. He seems to be greeting the Kronan, who lets out another annoyingly thundering bellow. From this, there is a round of cheering from the surrounding Marauders who sound a bit too confident in their stride—sure, Asgard is outnumbered but it really does depend _who’s_ out on the field, doesn’t it? In this case, the God of Thunder was more than apt to handle this titan, as he spun his hammer so rapidly Y/N could not see it through the naked eye.

Once he brought Mjölnir up, it didn’t need to come back down. Rocks of tremendous sizes split and exploded in pebbles from the hulking body-frame, and fell so uselessly— _lifelessly_ —at everyone’s feet. The only effort he used was that pinched smile of his, gleaning through those sky-blue eyes that Y/N had not seen in many years. And perhaps, it could wait a little longer. 

Detritus sprinkled gray into the air and it looked like the Kronan was gone in a puff of smoke. She frowned behind the back of her hand, rolling a curious, stray pebble within her palm. Dust kissed at her cheeks, and the battle was won. The Marauders looked at each other with such bewilderment and hopelessness, they dropped their weapons and went to their knees in a heartbeat. 

Lady Sif, Fandral, and Hogun came to Thor and eventually caught the sight of the absent Volstagg. Though, they were more than less enthused to see the appearance of the Amisian, who stood awkwardly at his side and gave a crooked wave. As the Einherjar came to collect these newfound prisoners, they had come to meet them at the corner of the plaza after Volstagg raised his brows in good luck as they finally crossed paths.

“Long time no—“ Y/N was cut short from her greeting as Lady Sif delivered a crack against the face, and swept the Amisian’s legs from right under her and shoved her onto the ground.

Sif raised her blade and pressed the cold steel against the half-blood’s throat, though she did not sway to inch herself farther from the stinging bite, “—You have some nerve, Y/N Skaraeith.”

“It’s nice to see you, too, Sif,” Y/N shook her head to thwart away the ringing and pushed herself up on her elbows, “Still just as angry, I see.”

Y/N wipes the split lip with the back of her hand, meeting Fandral’s sour glare that didn’t suit his usual charming mien, his teeth beginning to bare, “What are you doing here? You haven’t come to aid in our defenses and I should hope you don’t expect to be forgiven.”

“I don’t expect to be forgiven, _Twig,”_ She tries to explain, half-heartedly throwing around the old nickname she had given him to resemble his thin rapier, Fimbuldraugr, “I expect to be heard.”

It takes a full second before Y/N completely discerns the fact that they don’t believe her.

Thor is already stomping away with Hogun to tend to the wounded and destroyed—assuming that Fandral, Sif, and Volstagg will share more than enough of their spite with her. Y/N can feel that resentful gaze that sears against her temple, agreeing with the God of Thunder and their—or was it used to be—friends-in-arms. Asgardians and Amisians are with rank against each other, yet it was never determined which race was better than the other. They seemed to be curious about that now, it seemed, as Y/N was certain that Sif was scoring throughout her mind what the Amisian could and couldn’t survive that they could inflict. 

She comes in peace, Y/N frowns, yet another misunderstanding and another round-about treatment of hostility on another planet. 

“Whatever it is you want to say to Thor, you can say to all of us,” Fandral says with a taut voice, gesturing the tip of his sword to the group, “You’ve betrayed him as much as you betrayed us.”

That wasn’t in the slightest bit agreeable, and Y/N surpasses the urge to sigh. There is an acidic taste that follows the end of her tongue if she so much as makes a whisper against his words. What he says is true but it also isn’t; a _misunderstanding_ , and a hard one at that. This train of thought elicits an unprecedented reaction; a hard snort.

“If you’d let me talk,” Y/N begins, rising to stand again, “Give me a bed, someplace proper that won’t give me nausea from turbulence…Gods, even a warm cup of tea, I’ll be out of your hands before dawn. I betrayed you because I didn’t know what I was even betraying. If you might recall; I was dealing with the literal _spit_ of a troublemaker, do you really find that not at all convincing enough?”

The Asgardians exchange looks now, their once inextricable obduracy had become lesser and had the twang of meager sympathy. Though their anger has not yet let up from their expressions, they’ve inaudibly decided and agreed that such reasons should be heard in full. They are amongst a hierarchy of gods and power, they should have the decency to at least keep up the reputation of having favorable diplomatic connections. 

“So, have we all satiated our anger?” Y/N asks as she brushes the dirt from her trouser, flashing the increments of a trying grin.

Though, her enthusiasm is cut short as Fandral trips her on their way back towards the village.

_“Oops.”_ Is all he had to say.


End file.
